


The Once and The Future

by candidly



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Humor, Continuation, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Fluff and Angst, Immortal Merlin, M/M, Merthur - Freeform, Non-Graphic Violence, Post Season/Series 05, References to Suicide, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:31:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 71,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candidly/pseuds/candidly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2013, approximately one thousand, four hundred and seventy-four years after Arthur Pendragon's death in his arms, Merlin has been living out eternal life without very much to live for. Countless days have passed by, filled with pain and regret that never could truly fade away. But as life went on, Merlin had learned to adjust. He learned to live his life as normally as possible, finding it within himself to make it through each day despite the burdens of his past that weighed heavily upon his shoulders. </p><p>However, all is changed one day, when a certain king's voice rings through Merlin's ears, calling for his name as clear as day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Long-Awaited Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to keep this fic as canonically-feasible as possible. As in, something that could actually happen should the writers decide to make a modern spin-off of the series (which I very much hope for). I apologize in advance for any miscrepancies I make as far as English culture and British English language go; I'm American with a pretty good amount of knowledge as far as the actual Arthurian legends go, as well. 
> 
> I also believe I should say beforehand that this fic is going to deal with some difficult topics here and there, more importantly later on, that might make some readers uneasy, handling things like depression and suicide and other touchy subjects. Gathering from my own struggles with these kinds of issues as well as researching further information about problems that would be applicable to someone like Merlin through his life after Camelot as I chose to portray in this fic, I intend to remain as sensitive and careful as possible. Thank you.

_Merlin._

A following shock ran through Merlin like nothing ever had before. At least, not in a very, very, very, very, very, very, very, _very_ long time. It ran through his veins; it reached the very tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet, the hairs on the back of his neck. It seized him completely.

The slice of buttered toast he had been holding in his hand fell to the ground with a light thud. The buttery knife quickly followed, bouncing off his shoe and clanging loudly onto the splintered wooden flooring. Everything around him began to spin; the shoddy stained walls, the dreary mismatched furniture, the dim bulb that hung off the ceiling streaming in the blur. It all blended into a mesh of colors that Merlin did not understand. A mesh of colors he could not even see.

He gripped onto a nearby chair for support, which rocked unsteadily beneath his grasp. Struggling to catch his breath, Merlin swallowed hard. He had to focus. He had to gather about his wits and figure out why he could hear Arthur Pendragon’s voice call out his name through his ears as clear as day.

For the past one thousand, four hundred some odd years, it was not a strange occurrence to hear Arthur’s voice repeat through his head. Merlin made sure to remember it on a daily basis, just to ensure that the memory of him would never disappear for as long as eternity would end up being.

It had been a few centuries since Merlin had finally forgotten most of the memories he had of the majority of those he knew from the times long ago. He could not even begin to remember what Gaius looked like. He could no longer hear the hopeful sound of Gwen’s voice. He could no longer recall whether or not Gwaine was a brunette, a blonde, or a redhead. No, he couldn’t remember the mussed curls of Sir Leon’s hair, the color of Morgana’s striking, cold eyes, or even the touch of Hunith’s motherly hands.

Arthur Pendragon, however, was someone Merlin would never let himself forget. Over the many centuries, not a single fragment of who Arthur was escaped his memory. Not one feature of his face ever faded away. Not a fleeting moment of time they had spent together dimmed. It was as though, all these years, his king was still alive, and by his side. Merlin still knew what Arthur’s favourite color was. He knew what dish Arthur preferred the most for supper. He still knew which of Arthur’s many chainmails fit him the best upon preparation for battle.

But what Merlin clung onto, most desperately, was the sound of his voice. It was-

_Merlin._

He blinked. There it was again. That was no desperate figment of his imagination. That was Arthur calling for him as he had done, repeatedly, over a millennia ago.

Ignoring his breakfast spilled onto the ground, Merlin rushed for his tiny bedroom, yanking out the first sweatshirt he could find from a drawer and pulling it over his head. In his haste, he tripped over the rusty metal leg of his bed, stumbling into desk and coming dangerously close to crashing into the mirror on his wall.

For a fleeting moment after regaining his balance, Merlin stared into the mirror. He hadn’t visibly aged since the fulfillment of the prophecy during the Battle of Camlann. This was one of the few perks that came with the curse of eternal life.

What if, finally, it was time for the Sleeping King to awaken? Merlin couldn’t help but wonder why he was hearing Arthur’s voice so inconceivably clearly as he quickly brush through his hair. Without a moment of hesitation, he had decided it was time to pay another visit to Avalon as soon as possible. After rubbing off the crumbs of toast at the edges of his mouth, he finally deemed himself presentable, and dashed out of his room and across the small remainder of his flat space until he reached the door. Grabbing his red scarf from the rusty hook on the wall right outside, he ran straight to the emergency staircase, and rushed down it. He was in too big a hurry to wait for the rickety old lift to screech onto his level. Passing the empty lobby and yanking open the front doors, he was quickly met with a rush of cold winter air nipping at all corners of his face. Temperature wise, he was not fond of winter. The beauty and mystical atmosphere it brought forth, however, was why it was his favourite season.

Wrapping the crimson scarf around his neck, Merlin dashed for his bike. Biking on ice was not his best idea, but he was the greatest goddamn warlock to have ever existed; ice was never an issue. Besides, Avalon was only a couple kilometers away from his flat.

For the first five centuries after Arthur’s death, Merlin did not leave Avalon’s vicinity. In fact, he remained directly by the lake for two, without bothering to build himself any form of shelter. It took him a long, long, _long_ time to recover after Camlann. And he never fully did.

In between now and the end of those five centuries, however, he had moved around a lot. But those are stories in and of themselves, and are to be told in due time. To make it short, Merlin found himself unable to leave this small segment of land where his king had been laid to rest upon calm, foggy water. While the lands where Camelot once stood had long since been reinvented to suit the industrial needs of the modern age, Merlin did not allow for Avalon to be touched by corporate endeavours. It stuck out like a sore thumb in the outskirts of a bustling town; that much was true. Even so, very few people ever strode past the strange lake, partially due to the obscure location over which it existed that made people seldom travel by. Stumbling into the field outlying the lake was often an accident, where those who found it would simply remark on how spooky the fog looked that particular day, and be on with whatever the hell they were doing. Very few cared about nature and its beauty in this century, especially. Admittedly, Merlin did not have to do much within his own power to ward away human contact with the place.

So much for the pretentious scholars who truly believed they had mastered the subject of "Arthurian legend". Unable to pinpoint his finl resting place was one thing.  The vast majority of Arthurian history taught today made Merlin sick to his stomach. It grossly misinformed the people with outlandish, inaccurate portrayals of history. Of _his_ history.

But who’d listen to him? As far as the people of this world were concerned, the “fictional wizard” Merlin was still trapped in the “mythical” Crystal Caves for eternity. Merlin wasn’t stupid enough to call historians out for their bull. He was a lanky young man with messy hair and worn clothing. He was far from looking like a thousand-and-something year old powerful wizard who brought peace to Albion. He looked like a tired-out college kid desperately looking for a job and a cup of coffee.

But the thing is, Merlin _was_ the thousand-something year old powerful wizard who brought peace to Albion. Wearing a pointy blue hat and a sequined robe was not going to make that any more true. He couldn’t care less whether or not a living soul knew that fact. He didn’t want anyone to know. Merlin had compiled wisdom for almost a millennia and a half; he had witnessed the Golden Age of Magic during the few centuries to follow Albion’s Peace as sorcery was allowed back into the kingdoms. He had also witnessed the decline of magic shortly after that, and had also witnessed it disappear almost completely from day to day life as the 1000s rolled around. Sorcerers, if any had remained, ceased to reveal themselves in society. Purges swept through the centuries once more; witches were burned at the stake, warlocks imprisoned. Any magic that might’ve remained in the blood of those born through lineage was left untapped. Dormant. Magic had once again become taboo around the world. But now, modern day, magic was “fiction.”

Outside of Merlin’s own mind, the Old Religion and its teachings were lost entirely. It was considered mythology. Literature. Fantasy. It was all fictional books and movies and video games. Merlin’s name had long since been removed as a historical figure. It was now a name of mythical legend. Over the centuries, Merlin rarely went without another person scoffing as he announced his name. One simply could not fathom how many “who names their kid ‘Merlin’?” or “is this some kind of joke?” the warlock had to go through.

But Merlin was proud of his name. It was one thing he refused to lie about and disguise, unless completely necessary to avoid raised eyebrows. When those times came, he’d use Emrys, though, with the same, if not worse, reactions. It was one of the few things that still mattered to him. Very little matters to a guy who’s been alive for almost a thousand and half years. You kind of just stop caring after a while.

Hearing Arthur call his name was the first jolt of true emotion Merlin experienced in an unbelievably long time. For an inconceivable amount of time until today, Merlin did not care. He cared very little about anything he went through on a daily basis. It was all just waking up, doing trivial things to pass the time (he’s graduated from college over a hundred and fifty times, for example), going to sleep, rinse, and repeat. The only thing that kept him going without turning completely robotic was the hope that Kilgharrah’s words would hold true some day; that, when Albion needed him the most, Arthur would once again rise. That was genuinely the only thing that Merlin hoped for every night before he’d go to bed. That maybe, just maybe, he’d somehow get the signal that it was time for Arthur to wake up.

It was with an incredibly rare, wide, and goofy grin that Merlin pushed harder and harder on the pedals of his bicycle. The roads were particularly dangerous with ice, and he wasted no time in whispering spells under his breath that miraculously melted it away in his path. He could feel his scarf whip behind him as he sped down the busy main street and eventually onto the quiet side roads, which led to the country side, where Avalon remained, almost entirely untouched thanks to Merlin’s magical efforts. His face felt completely numb by the cold, and snowflakes began to fall gently from the sky and flick onto his face as his bike skidded dangerously on the frozen asphalt. He was suddenly hopeful; a feeling he hadn’t felt in hundreds upon hundreds of years. This hope was different; he could feel it in the core of his heart, the very core of his being. He could feel it sidle against the magic that flowed through his veins. It was-

_Merlin._

He was almost there. The tiny isle surrounded by foggy waters came into view a relatively short distance away. Hopping off his bike and letting it fall unceremoniously to the ground, Merlin began to run. His heart pounded furiously as dashed across the thin layer of snow that covered the grass.

It _had_ to be time. Merlin had never felt like this before; for over fifteen centuries, he hadn’t once felt this sensation rise within him. There had to be a reason to it. This wasn’t just another hallucination, no, not another relapse of grief striking a chord within him. It wasn’t sadness this time. It was hope.

Merlin’s lungs ached with the pain that sprung from the combined cold and prolonged activity; unbeknownst to him until very much recently, he had asthma. He’s always had it. It explained a hell of a lot. Just because he’s Merlin, the most powerful wizard to have ever walked this world, didn’t mean he wasn’t also a lanky human with a poor immune system. He still caught cold from time to time. Every now and then he’d make a trip to the doctor’s office.

Merlin was still a human. The only difference was that he wasn’t allowed to kick the bucket. Oh, and he also possessed insurmountably powerful magic.

The misty lake was incredibly close to him, now. He could feel the magical aura of the area intensify as he drew closer and closer to the edge. Slowing down, Merlin felt his heart expand rapidly; it threatened to burst out of his chest. This was it.

Merlin’s feet stopped moving. He was finally at the very edge of the lake, where the surface was thinly frozen over. Drawing in sharp, painful breaths, he stared out into the expanse. This was it… wasn’t it?

It was silent. He waited for his name to be called a fourth time. Minutes stretched on, but Arthur’s deep voice did not turn up again. Even so, Merlin did not move a muscle. This was it. It was time. For some reason or another, it had to be time for Arthur to wake up. It had to be. There was no other explanation for the feeling that had almost overwhelmed him.

Nothing came. Merlin had been standing there for a good fifteen minutes in the freezing air, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. His heart, too, felt like it had frozen over. What if… what if it really was nothing, in the end?

After all, no particularly eventful story had hit the news channel. No reports on anything threatening the nation. Looking back on it now, Merlin could not remember any recent story that might’ve threatened the peace of Albion. His heart turning into stone, Merlin was hit with the realization that there was really no reason for Arthur to rise in the first place. He hadn’t risen for the Hundred Year War. He hadn’t risen for the Napoleonic Wars, either. World War I, World War II… not a single one of the many, many battles Britain had faced since Camlann signaled for Arthur’s return. So why would it now, when absolutely nothing was happening?

Merlin stared at the misty, frozen over lake with tears brimming in his eyes. There was a particularly painful lump rising in his throat. This was the first time he had begun to cry over Arthur in a long time. He was doing pretty well, too. Damn.

After half an hour passed, Merlin turned to walk back to where his bicycle lay underneath a thin layer of fresh snow. He felt almost entirely numb on the outside, but on the inside, he burned with anger at himself. _Stupid, stupid, stupid! You’re imagining things again, you idiot. Stop fooling yourself. Get over it. He’s never, ever, ever coming back, and you know it-_

_Merlin._

He stopped in his tracks almost immediately, and turned around slowly. He could hear the crack of the ice as it broke apart over the lake. Without a moment of hesitation, Merlin ran for the edge once more, ignoring the tremble of his knees and the stabbing sensations in his lungs.

There was something sticking out of the deep crack that was now forming across the ice. Upon reaching the edge, Merlin could finally identify what it was – it was the blade of a sword, slowly rising above the water. He could not believe his eyes; with a yelp of realization, he leapt into the water.

Merlin felt the freezing water almost instantly. He couldn’t care less. He kept wading through the water as quickly as he could, and in the short distance he could see that a hand gripped the hilt of the sword that was now completely above the surface.

_MERLIN!_

Laughing out loud in disbelief, Merlin continued to tread deeper into the water, which now reached just above his waist. It was happening. It was finally happening. He wasn’t imagining anything; this, this was real. The hand that stuck out of the water was real. The shining Sword of Excalibur that he had forged so very long ago in Kilgharrah’s breath was real. It was real.

The water had reached the middle of his chest when Merlin finally made it to the hand. He could still feel the bottom of the lake beneath his feet, though it was loose and difficult to maneuver upon. He didn’t care. As soon as he came within reach, Merlin grabbed the hand. It was slick and ice-cold. He grasped it, along with the sword that it held, and pulled with all his might. It wouldn’t budge. Freezing out of his mind and unable to wait any longer, Merlin screamed out a spell, and his eyes glowed yellow with the sudden boost of strength that ran through his limbs. He pulled again, and finally, the rest of the body that was stuck below came loose.

Gasping for air and choking on water, Arthur Pendragon rose from the lake by Merlin’s hand. Merlin could not believe his eyes. He could not believe what he was witnessing.

Arthur was still dressed in the very same armor he went to rest in; the same armor that he had been wearing at Camlann. Even the stain of blood from where he was run through by Mordred’s blade was still there. His long crimson cape wafted in the water behind him, soaked through and through as was the rest of him. The crest of Camelot was clear as day on his attire. Everything was exactly as Merlin had left it on that fateful day so very, very, very long ago.

But Merlin could not register Arthur’s appearance for long. He did not have the time to look at his face. The two men needed to get out of the frozen water before any long-term damage could be done.

Sputtering without pause, Arthur blindly grasped for Merlin’s arm for support in the water. Feeling his heavy weight crush down on him, Merlin struggled to wade out of the water with Arthur in tow. The metal armor was ice cold, but he was already too numb to fully sense it. Merlin towed through the lake as the ice broke apart around him. There was a lot of shouting and gagging; Merlin couldn’t tell if it they came from his own frozen lips. Regardless, he kept going, and, finally, managed to reach the edge and tread onto the shore.

With a thud, Merlin fell to the muddy ground, followed quickly by the clang of Arthur’s armor as it crashed onto the earth next to him. His chest was searing with an indescribable amount of pain; he gasped for air, spitting up water and struggling to whisper a few spells that would instantly dispel the unbearable cold.

“ _Onhaet,_ ” he muttered in a broken voice, and felt the numbness dissipate from his body, quickly feeling the warmth return to the core of his being. Panting, he turned onto his side.

There, Arthur lay, looking incredibly disheveled and in copious amounts of icy pain. His eyes were closed, but gasps of agony continued to stream out of his delirious mouth. Quick to react, Merlin placed his hands on Arthur’s chest, muttering the same spell that had recovered him. Soon, the other man’s face had calmed. His eyes remained closed, but he looked to be at rest and significantly warmer. Only now was Merlin finally able to register what he was looking at.

It really was Arthur. Not a single feature had changed, aside from the fact that he was completely drenched. Merlin’s memory had remained faithful, even after all these years. It was the same Arthur Pendragon who Merlin had devoted his life to so long ago, and continued to do so, even after his death. It was really and truly _him_.

“Arthur!”

The only response Merlin received was an annoyed groan. He smiled with a grin that reached from one ear to the other. Laughing excitedly, Merlin leaned over Arthur carefully and gently slapped at the sides of his face. He pressed his other arm to his shoulder and shook him lightly.        

“Hey, Arthur!”          

“Wh… what is it, Merlin?”          

Merlin froze. He leaned away from Arthur as another lump rose in his throat. It _was_ Arthur. He had Arthur back. A thousand, four hundred-something years had passed since he had last heard him speak. For so long, Merlin had been void of emotion. Void of every joyful feeling known to man. Living for as long as he does that kind of thing to a guy. Especially if he has nothing left to live for.          

A second later, Merlin began to cry. But these weren’t tears of anguish or sorrow. He sobbed happily as he watched Arthur stir from his position on the ground, looking incredibly out of date with his medieval armor and his billowing cape. But he still looked exactly as Merlin had remembered him. Broken laughter mixed in with his sobs.         

“Merlin… are you crying?” he asked as he slowly opened his eyes. Merlin unsuccessfully tried to stifle his sniveling.

As soon as he turned his face to look at Merlin, Arthur froze. His face went utterly blank. It took him a prolonged moment to realize what had just happened. Sitting up with his hand instinctively whipping to where the bloodstain had remained on his chainmail, he groped around his chest. He gasped. “Merlin!”

Without a further second of hesitance, Merlin saw Arthur lean toward him, and found himself quickly enveloped into a fierce embrace. The bitter chill of Arthur’s metal armor collided with the thin fabric of his sweatshirt. But that didn’t matter.

“Merlin, you’re… you’re…” Arthur’s voice was saturated with complete disbelief and unmasked joy as he tightly clung to the other man.

“I’m what?” Merlin’s voice broke as he chuckled with pure joy, hugging Arthur back.

“But you were… and I was… and… Merlin… _I was dead!_ ” Arthur finally pulled away from Merlin, sounding completely confused and looking utterly lost. “Wasn’t I dead? No, I was definitely dead! I died… but…”

“Does it… does it feel as though you’ve just woken up?” Merlin inquired innocently, wondering to himself if the title “The Sleeping King” held any worth.

“Precisely that, actually…” Arthur replied, breathless. He was blinking rapidly, still grabbing at his side where the blade had mortally wounded him. “I don’t… understand…”

“There’s much that I must explain to you, Arthur,” Merlin responded reassuringly, patting Arthur’s armored shoulder. “But this is not the proper pla-”

“What on earth are you wearing?” Arthur blurted out. Merlin caught his eyes scrutinizing every inch of his being; for a moment, he was uncomfortable. To Arthur, the past fifteen centuries must have felt like a nap. With a sudden pang, Merlin realized that Arthur must have been mentally stuck in the past. To him, his death had probably occurred only a couple hours ago. Gwen would still be alive and waiting for him to return. Gaius would be tending to his patients. Gwaine, Percival, and Leon would be rallying the forces in the joy of victory. In Arthur’s mind, they were all still alive. To Merlin, however, it has been a thousand and four hundred-something years since that terrible day had come to pass. Since everyone he knew and loved died of old age. How was he supposed to even begin to explain all this to him? How on earth was he going to break the news?

“Like I said,” Merlin began awkwardly, his voice weak and trembling. “I… er, I’ve got a lot to explain to you. But we’ve got to get you somewhere warm first. I’m not going to let you die again, especially from hypothermia, of all things.”

“Hypo-what?” Arthur stared at Merlin, utterly puzzled.

“Nothing, nevermind, just-”

“I suppose you’re right about the cold, however. Have you brought back the horses? You must’ve done something useful since I died.”

Uh oh. Horses? No, Merlin had brought a single, rusty old bicycle. How the hell was he going to explain this to Arthur? And - oh _god_ – the armor. Arthur was wearing medieval armor! How in hell was Merlin going to get him back to his flat wearing _that_?

“I… er, I don’t have any horses, Arthur. I haven’t ridden a horse in over a hundred and fifty years,” Merlin admitted sheepishly, worried about how Arthur might react.

Arthur’s big blue eyes widened, and his mouth gaped open. Uh oh. Things were beginning to click, it seemed. Merlin did not want Arthur to have to go through this, however; for god sake, the man had been dead for over a millennia! He didn’t need this right now. Before Arthur could respond, Merlin got up, and pulled his arm.

“Come on, we’re going to have to walk a bit of a distance,” Merlin muttered awkwardly, pulling Arthur to his feet as best he could. He was incredibly depressed again; for a long time, Merlin had imagined their reunion to be a monumentally grand one. With smiles and good feeling and happiness all around. But his happiness was cut short by the realization of the state Arthur was in. He couldn’t even begin to think about how he was supposed to explain the situation to him. He couldn’t even begin to imagine Arthur’s reactions. This was going to go badly. He could feel it.

Merlin decided it was for the best to just leave his bike in the field. He could retrieve it another day. For now, he was determined to take as many back roads and trails through the forest as possible. Arthur was definitely not ready to see cars and buses and traffic lights, among other modern innovations. Merlin wanted him to remain as comfortable and calm as possible.

As soon as he got to his feet, Arthur wobbled on his knees. Merlin was quick to catch him from falling over. He looked like a mess. Even so, it wasn’t nearly as terrible a condition as Merlin had last seen him. He didn’t even want to think about that right now.

“I…” Arthur swayed dangerously as he leaned against Merlin. His voice was weak. “I don’t feel that… er… well.”

“It’s alright,” Merlin reassured him, grabbing Arthur’s armored arm and throwing it over his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

“I know you do.”

Merlin’s heart faltered. This was bringing back very painful memories. Feigning a reassuring smile, he tightened his grip on Arthur’s waist, and began to tow him through the snow-dusted grass at a terribly slow pace.

“That’s funny,” Arthur murmured quietly after a good half an hour of covering barely any distance at all. “It wasn’t snowing yesterday. It wasn’t snowing during the battle at all.”

“That’s… er… you’re right. It wasn’t snowing,” Merlin tried desperately to avoid any explanation at this time. Arthur was in horrible condition, and the sky was getting darker as the temperature grew chillier. “Don’t worry about it, Arthur. Rest.”

“Where are we going, Merlin?”

“To… my home.”

“…You mean to Gaius’s chambers?”

“No… to _my_ home.”

“You’ve got a home? Since when?”

“Er… a while.”

“Oh.”

Arthur’s voice was precisely the same tone as it had been during the final moments of his life. Strong and low, yet solemn and weak. Almost soothing. Rather muted. As though trying to comfort him. The devastating memories flooded through Merlin’s mind once again, lumping in his throat and watering in his eyes.

By taking the back routes back to his flat, their journey had been made significantly longer. They had been trudging through forest and field for a couple hours, now, with little conversation. Merlin’s heart ached. He wished this reunion had gone so much better than it had.

“You never told me why you’re dressed as you are, Merlin,” Arthur brought up once more, his voice sounding even weaker than it had before. Merlin swallowed hard.

“Er… well, this is a sweatshirt… and jeans… and trainers…”

“Wha…?” Arthur was slipping in and out of consciousness. His voice was distant and disconnected. He weighed much more heavily upon Merlin’s shoulders.

“Don’t worry about it, Arthur,” Merlin murmured calmly, patting his arm. “Don’t worry about it.”

Thankfully, when they reached the corner of the town where Merlin’s apartment complex was located, Arthur was too out of it to register anything. The night had fallen upon them by the time they reached the shoddy building, and there weren’t many people out and about on the sidewalks. Still, the few that were stared with utter confusion; Merlin was mostly unfazed by it. He already got a lot of weird looks from his neighbours as it was, known as the strange young man who never responded to neighbourly invitations or attended any holiday get-togethers. So, he was carrying a guy who looked like he just won first-place in a Renaissance Festival. Who gives a damn?

Merlin muttered some awkward hellos to those he passed by on the street, and finally sighed in relief when he reached the front door.

The lobby was thankfully just as empty as it had been when he left it. Painfully pulling Arthur to the lift, Merlin hurriedly pressed the button for it to arrive. He wanted more than anything to relieve himself of the unbearable pressure of Arthur using him as a crutch.

“Can’t you juss’… use your magic… or some… thing…” Arthur muttered in his daze. Merlin had momentarily forgotten that he had revealed his secret to Arthur shortly before… no, he wasn’t going to think about it.

“Shh,” Merlin soothed as the lift finally clanged down to floor level. It’s metal doors opened automatically, and Arthur giggled.

“There it is… there’s your magic, Merlin…” he chuckled to himself as Merlin pulled him into the contraption. The most uncomfortable silence Merlin had ever experienced comprised the duration of the trip to the seventh floor.

When Merlin was finally able to yank open his door, he exhaled loudly in relief.

“We’re here, Arthur,” he whispered, patting his arm yet again.

Merlin towed Arthur to his bedroom and threw him unceremoniously onto his tiny, undersized mattress, where it sunk down several inches under the abrupt and heavy weight. Arthur started snoring almost instantly.

With no energy left, Merlin grabbed a moth-eaten blanket from one of his drawers and lugged himself over to the sunken sofa that sat in the middle of his living room. He didn’t bother changing out of his clothes. He felt utterly drained. Even so, he was happy.

Merlin hadn’t seen Arthur in such an inconceivably long amount of time; he was brimming with joy over having him back, finally. His best friend in the entire world was back, and once again, his life found meaning. All these years of waiting suddenly came to an end as Arthur had returned. Even still Merlin was n shock over the fact that he was back. It still hadn’t completely hit him. It just hadn't sunk in.

He smiled as he plopped onto rickety sofa, pulling the blanket about his shoulders and bringing it up to his chin. Arthur was back. He finally had Arthur back.

One question still remained, however. One dire question that threatened his happiness. Why was the Once and Future King awoken from his eternal slumber? Kilgharrah had told Merlin on that fateful day that Arthur would return when the peace of Albion was threatened… so… why…

Merlin’s heart faltered, turning into stone once more. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.


	2. You Can't Handle the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never easy telling someone that they've been dead for about a thousand and a half years. Merlin had only just pulled Arthur out of the lake a day ago, a day he had been waiting for his entire life; his endless curse of a life, that is. Thinking this reunion would be as easy and joyous as it seemed in his head was a grossly optimistic miscalculation. And this is only the beginning of his troubles.

The unwanted thoughts that had amalgamated within his head kept Merlin from sleeping soundly that night. He had barely slept at all, twisting and turning upon the tiny couch that was far, far too small beneath him. Constantly falling in and out of consciousness, sequences flickered through his head that he had spent hundreds of years trying to suppress within the furthest corner of his mind.

He never got over it. Merlin would _never_ get over it.

Wait. Where was all that snoring coming from?

Arthur. Oh. That’s right. He was alive.

_… He was alive!_

It was still dark outside, meaning it was still desperately early in the morning. It did not matter to Merlin, however; he threw back the faded blanket and leapt to his feet, grinning widely as he recalled the events that had transpired the day before. Snores floated gently from the bedroom. Evidently, Arthur was still fast asleep.

So he really _was_ back. That was really _him_ snoring. That was Arthur. Merlin’s heart skipped a beat. Arthur was alive!

He didn’t dare think about waking him any time soon. Poor guy had been dead for fifteen centuries. He deserved some proper sleep. Merlin decided he’d call in sick for work that day; the restaurant he worked at a few blocks away could deal without a busboy for a shift. And if his bastard of a boss didn’t agree, he’d make him agree. Such were the perks of being an immortal wizard.

Over the long years, Merlin had to find a way to fill his time. He spent a great portion of his days sleeping. Sleeping for hours on end, though unable to refrain from dreaming. Dreaming was dangerous. It brought back things that he did not want back.

But he soon realized that sleeping wasn’t the best way to fill his eternal time. He had to make money. Merlin was a man of duty and honor; never once did he think about using his magic to make his life easier. The fact of the matter was, Merlin did not want his life to be easier. His life wasn’t easy, and he wasn’t about to lie to himself. Sure, he could rob a bank clean empty with a couple of words and a flicker of his fingers, but that wasn’t the kind of man Merlin was. He worked hard for himself as he had done his entire life. It was an intrinsic part of his being; a want to do good, to be good, and to remain as much like the man he was when he knew Arthur and Gaius and Gwen and Gwaine and all his other beloved friends of a time long ago. He wanted to make sure that they’d be proud of him, wherever they were now, and that they’d know how much they meant to him. And while he may not remember most of these people other than a vague notion of their lives and a handful of the memories they had shared, his love for them never once failed. They’d always be the people that helped make Merlin the kind of person he was. Or, at the very least, _wished_ he still was.

So, Merlin spent much of his time taking up menial jobs for scarce pay. He was okay with that. His upbringing was modest; he spent the best years of his life being a manservant. It would never be the same, but taking up serving jobs and other lesser tasks made him feel a lot better during his most difficult moments. You see, over the wisdom compiled from fifteen centuries, Merlin had intelligence that could match no other man; he was exceptionally smart and incredibly talented; if he wanted to, he could’ve been the corporate head of some of the biggest industries that ruled the business world and carried out his endeavors without even a single setback. He could’ve been a Nobel Peace Prize winning scientist. A Pulitzer awarded writer. He could’ve even been the prime minister of the country, if he’d put his mind to it. He could be anything he wanted to be in life.

And yet, his most recent choice was to be a busboy at O’Connelly’s Bar and Grill down the street.

The clock on the uneven coffee table in the center of the room read 5:39 A.M. It was far too early.

Taking advantage of the early hour, Merlin decided he’d get about cleaning up his shoddy living space and preparing for the inevitably long day ahead. Arthur was certainly not about to wake up any time soon. At least, Merlin hoped so with every fiber of his being. He couldn’t even begin to think of a way to break the news to Arthur. How would you tell a man who is mentally stuck in the sixth century that the year is 2013? That his glorious kingdom had long, long, _long_ since disappeared? That Camelot and the people in it were no more? The man’s wife has been dead for over a millennia. His friends, his family, his people – all dead. Long dead. Not even their bones would remain. Everyone was dust.

Merlin’s heart sunk into his chest.

Folding strewn-around clothes could not divert his thoughts. Dusting the tabletops couldn’t distract him. Sweeping the floor and changing out dead light bulbs couldn’t lessen the weight that threatened to overwhelm Merlin’s tired mind. A hot shower and fresh change of clothes could not calm his nerves, either. Running a faded towel through his wet hair did little to ease him.

Merlin wasn’t sure of how to go about this task just yet. He did know, however, that he had to make Arthur as comfortable as possible in this new setting. That meant keeping all curtains closed and all blocking all views to the bustling street outside. It also meant covering as many technological contraptions as possible. The blanket was thrown over the tiny television in the corner of the room. The telephone was unplugged and stored beneath the small kitchen counter. The radio was stuffed into the microwave. The microwave was then unplugged and thrown into the cabinet underneath.

Then came another issue. Food. Merlin only bought enough each week to last for himself; that meant a few boxes of cereal, some milk, a carton of eggs, a stick or two of butter, and a couple loafs of bread. He did not eat much as it was; again, living for as long as he did made food unappetizing after a while. It was more of a necessity than a joyful experience; as long as it filled his stomach, Merlin did not care what he stuffed down his throat. Food was food.

But Arthur was still used to the lavish meals and rich wines and hearty portions that were fit for the King of Camelot. Merlin gulped, checking his watch. It was now 7:52 A.M. The closest supermarket would be opening very soon. But, dammit, his bike! It was still by Avalon, more than likely buried beneath the fresh layer of snow that fell steadily though the night. _Dammit._

In truth, Merlin had been saving up for his first car. He already knew how to drive; in fact, he’s known how to drive since 1912. Even so, he had never really cared for the use of automobiles when things like bicycles existed; those were fun. The air whipped in your face and your hair ran through the wind and it just felt so _free._ It almost felt like flying. Even somewhat close to riding a dragon. Besides, Merlin had way, way more than enough time on his hands. Walking or biking helped fill in a lot of that extra time.

The trip the supermarket would take quite some time on foot; it didn’t help that the snow continued to drizzle upon the thick sheet of white that covered the ground outside. Even with the use of magic to clear the path, it would still take at least an hour. What if Arthur was to take up, then? Without Merlin home? Oh, god. He didn’t even want to think about what might happen. Oh, _god_.

He would just have to take the risk. Arthur had been dead for over a millennia; the least Merlin could do now was provide him with a good meal. Besides, it was just like old times. Old times, so very long ago, that brought back so very many happy memories that had come to pass before the tragedy that effectively destroyed not only Arthur’s life, but Merlin’s, as well.

Hastily pulling an old winter jacket out of his closet and throwing it on, Merlin decided he’d be quick about it. He’d just buy a hell of a lot of meat and dough and vegetables and make it pretty.

And so, that is what he did. It took Merlin all of forty-two nerve-wracking minutes to go to the market, buy the ingredients, and return to his apartment. He may or may not have used his magic to speed up the line to pay, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was the fact that upon entering his home, Merlin was met with Arthur’s heavy snores still coming from the closed bedroom, unperturbed. With a heavy sigh of relief, Merlin got to work on cooking. He hadn’t cooked a proper meal on his own since 1953 while working as a chef in Brittany, France. All he had to work with, here, was a faulty old oven and a temperamental stove that refused to work properly. No matter. He was Merlin, dammit. The goddamn greatest wizard to have ever walked this Earth.

A little while later, the pork chops and chicken legs were roasting in the oven. Everything was going smoothly so far. Merlin set about peeling the boiled potatoes when-

“ _MEEEEEEEERLIIIIIIIIIIN!_ ”

The knife missed the potato and sliced straight through Merlin’s palm. Blood gushed violently from his hand as his heart skipped several beats. Shit _. He was awake._

Dropping the bloody potato on the floor and ignoring the excessive hemorrhaging of his hand, Merlin dashed for his bedroom. _Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit-_

“MERLIN,” Arthur yelled, backed up against the wall on the opposite end of the tiny room. His face was a mixture of utter confusion, horror, and fury. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?”

“A-Arthur,” Merlin gulped as he slowly inched his way toward the frightened armored man pressed against the wall. “Calm down for a moment, I will explain! Just-”

“What the hell is all THIS?” Arthur shouted, drawing back the curtain and pointing at the tiny window that revealed the bustling main street in front. Dammit. Merlin forgot that window existed. “What on earth is going on, Merlin?”

“I need you to calm down for a moment, Arthur,” Merlin repeated through his clenched teeth, breathing unevenly. The blood from his hand was swiftly dripping onto his jeans and onto the musty carpet flooring. Damn. This must’ve looked pretty bad, too. “Just sit down and… and just-”

“Wha- your hand,” Arthur suddenly inquired, his voice substantially dropping in volume. Well, maybe slicing open an artery wasn’t for nothing. It seemed to momentarily distract him. This was a very good thing. “What happened?”

“No, er, nothing,” Merlin stuttered, stuffing his hand underneath his shirt with little effort at being discreet. “I had a little accident, that’s all.”

“I’m not at all surprised,” Arthur replied calmly, though his voice was still tentative and saturated with a confusion that matched his widened blue eyes. “Merlin, what’s… what is going on? Why do you look like that? What is all of this?” he whined, pointing at the various foreign objects that Merlin had in his room, such as the dingy lamp by his bed and the laptop that sat on his desk. Not good.

“I beg of you to just sit down, Arthur,” Merlin sighed. “Please. I’ve got a lot I need to tell you. But let me take care of this, first,” he finished, innocently gesturing at his bleeding hand that soaked through his shirt. “Just sit on the bed for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

Merlin left the bedroom as soon as Arthur nodded, though it was a hesitant and highly suspicious motion. Shutting off all the working components of the stove with a wave of his undamaged hand, he began to feel nauseated. The mixture of emotional pressure, kitchen heat, and blood loss threatened to overwhelm him. This was going so incredibly wrong.

As he wrapped a kitchen towel around the deep wound in his hand, Merlin forced himself to think about what he should say to Arthur. _Hey, so, yeah, you’ve been dead since the 539 AD. Um. And yeah, it’s like, er, 2013 now. And, oh yeah, Camelot? Camelot’s long gone. Your wife’s been dead for about a thousand and a half years. Same with your knights. And your people. Yeah, er, everyone’s dead, mate. Sorry. But if it helps, I’m an immortal and you’ve still got me. So, cheer up, Arthur. It’s not that bad._

Merlin swallowed hard. What the hell was he supposed to say?

By the time he returned to the bedroom, Arthur was sitting on the side of the bed with his head buried into his gloves. He looked pathetically out of place. Sighing deeply, Merlin took a seat on the other side of the bed without looking at his old friend. He had to tell him. It had to be done.

“Arthur,” Merlin began hesitantly, biting his lip. “It’s all very, very complicated and twisted and just… just incredibly difficult to believe. If at any point you wish to strike me upside the head, be my guest.”

“Give me more credit, Merlin,” Arthur said quietly, his voice significantly calmer.

“Okay… well, this is… this is going to sound absolutely impossible-”

“I’ve gathered as much on my own, thank you.”

“Well, when you… d-died… on that… day, well-”

“So I _did_ die.”

“Um, yeah” Merlin swallowed hard. “And… well the prophecy had been announced long before my birth. Long before yours. The prophecy foretold of our destiny to bring peace to Albion. And we did it. We accomplished that together. We fulfilled the prophecy and brought peace between the people and sorcery. We saved Camelot from Morgana’s wrath. But as you, er, very well must know, you didn’t make it,” Merlin’s voice threatened to break. This was bringing back absolutely awful memories that he was still unable to deal with over a thousand years later. “And when… you died, I… I called for The Great Dragon, and-”

“The Great Dragon _? You?_ ”

“…Yes, me. I’m… sort of, uh, the last Dragonlord, Arthur,” Not that there were any dragons left, however.

“So, you’re the greatest sorcerer in all the land, _and_ a Dragonlord? I thought they were all dead… well, I presume that explains how you warded off the dragon on the battlefield… Goodness, Merlin. You’re full of surprises.”

Merlin cleared his throat awkwardly, nodding. “Well, as I was saying, he told me that the prophecy dictated that… when Albion needed you most, you would return. From the dead, I figured.”

“But, I didn’t… feel dead. Well, I _thought_ I was. I was a goner, for sure,” For a moment, there was silence, and Arthur was apparently lost in thought. But it broke with a sharp intake of breath. “…was I not?”           

“Trust me,” Merlin muttered solemnly, closing his eyes. “You were definitely dead.”           

“How long was I, er, dead for? It couldn’t have been more than a few hours? Days?”           

Merlin couldn’t find his voice. He couldn’t open his mouth at all.           

“Merlin?”          

He still couldn’t respond. Suddenly, he felt Arthur grab his shoulder and wheel him around. Dammit, he was looking directly into his piercing blue eyes.           

“Merlin,” he repeated, looking deadly serious. “ _How long have I been dead for_?”           

“You don’t want to know.”           

“Yes. Yes, I do.”          

“Trust me… you really, _really_ don’t.”           

“ _Merlin._ ”

Merlin hesitated. He couldn’t look away from Arthur’s profound stare as he yearned for an answer. There was no way to avoid this. He had to tell him. He had to. 

“You’ve been dead… for…” Merlin swallowed back the lump that had formed in his throat. This was it. “You’ve been dead for over a thousand years, Arthur.”

Merlin cringed and closed his eyes, worried about how Arthur would react. A moment passed however, and nothing could be heard from the other man. Wrenching his eyes open at last, Merlin was met with Arthur looking as though he had just been told a really, really bad joke. 

“Merlin,” Arthur began to chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Your peculiar sense of humour never ceases to amaze me. But, truly, that was just a little too pathetic an attempt.”

“I’m serious,” Merlin protested, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to look his way. “Arthur, look me in the eye. I wouldn’t lie to you about something like this. _Look me in the eye._ ”

Arthur’s face froze mid-laughter as he looked at the distraught and sincere expression etched Merlin’s face. It felt like a century had passed as his eyes widened in horror and the smile wiped cleanly from his lips.

“No,” he whispered blankly, looking as though he was about to be sick. “It can’t- no, no, there’s absolutely no way that’s even remotely possible – you can’t be serious – it felt like only a few – no, Merlin, please tell me this is a stupid, sick prank. Merlin, _please_.”

“Why the hell would I be joking about this, Arthur?” Merlin shouted, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the emotions he fought so hard to suppress. “As if I’d joke about the fact that I’ve spent so many damn years mourning your death, each and every day of my pathetic life! As if I’d joke about the fact that I had to endure such an unbelievably long time regretting the fact that I couldn’t save the one person to which I devoted every fiber of my being! _As if I’d joke about any of that!_ You _died_ , Arthur. You died in _my_ _arms_ and… and I couldn’t do anything about it. I’ll die by my own hand before I ever joke about that.”

Breathing with immense difficulty, Merlin was immediately hit with guilt for what he had just said. He had no right to go off like that; for goodness sake, Arthur died! He had only _just_ been brought back to life! He was confused and lost and stuck in a world way, way, _way_ beyond his time without any rhyme or reason as to why. Seeing him again snapped every barrier that Merlin fought hard to maintain within his mind in hopes of keeping out the emotions that brought him to the edge of losing it so many, many times over the long years. Seeing him broke his composure; seeing him broke the eternal reverie Merlin was sure he would be stuck in for the rest of his endless life.

Arthur’s confused and frightened expression immediately dissipated. He looked taken aback for a very slight moment, but it soon melted into sad remorse. Merlin felt utterly gutted.

“Merlin,” Arthur began quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. Yet, it was saturated with a grief that struck the chords of the warlock’s heart with a sharp and rusty knife. “I can’t even begin to comprehend what you must have gone through. I… You must forgive me, Merlin. I-”

“No, I’m at fault, Arthur. I’m sorry. I had no right to say any of that. It’s just been… incredibly difficult, to say the le-”

Everything went black. And then-

_Just… just hold me. Please._

The memory hit Merlin like a train smashing into a brick wall at full-speed. He gripped tightly at the covers of his bed, feeling the fabric tear through his clenched fingers. The exact moment during which Arthur told him those words played vividly throughout his mind as though he was witnessing it just as it had happened. This was no ordinary relapse of memory. This was no broken hallucination. He felt the cold leather glove on Arthur’s hand wrap around his as they both collapsed onto the ground, unable to move any further toward Avalon. He could see the overcast sky above and he could feel the dense, chilly air that came with it as they lay upon the ground. His mind had just been sent back fifteen centuries to the precise moment Arthur uttered these words as he prepared to succumb to his death.

And suddenly, Arthur was in front of him again, and his bed was below him again, and the sounds of the bustling street outside were vaguely audible again.

“Merlin?”

“What…?”

“Merlin, are you all right? You look like you just saw a ghos- er, wait, I’m sor-”

“No, no, it was nothing. Don’t worry.”

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. His fists were clenched and he looked to be processing all the news he had heard. Meanwhile, Merlin was still reeling over what he had just experienced; he felt his forehead dampen and his stomach churned. The pain in his hand had also intensified. All in all, Merlin felt like he was just about ready to fall over onto the ground and writhe in agony.

“So… tell me then, Merlin…” Arthur began hesitantly, his eyelids still shut. “What year is it, then?”

“…2013,” Merlin swallowed hard and turned away from Arthur before he could open his eyes. His voice broke. “Arthur, you’ve been dead for about a thousand, four-hundred and seventy-four years.”

Arthur did not respond immediately. Merlin did not look up.

“Leave me,”

“Arthur-”

“Just, please. I need a moment to think. Leave me.”

Gently nodding his head, Merlin rose from the bed and walked out of the bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him.

“ _Ic the thurhhæle thinu licsar,_ ” he whispered as he unwrapped the towel from his wound. Almost immediately, the gash disappeared from his skin. The instant relief of his injury did nothing to calm his nerves, however.

Merlin couldn’t even begin to imagine what must have been flipping through Arthur’s mind as soon as the news hit him. His heart rate went up as he imagined the terrible realizations the man must’ve been making on his own as the situation registered within him. There was nothing he could do to make it easier on him. He totally blew it.

The least he could do now was finish the meal he had been preparing. With a wave of his hand, the pots began to boil again and the oven flickered on with heat. Soon, the aroma of cooking meats and boiling vegetables refilled the tiny kitchen space, and Merlin returned to peeling the potatoes, wiping his blood off the knife that had clattered to the ground.

An hour that stretched on for what felt like eternity had passed. Merlin cleared newspapers and books off of his quaint little dinner table that had mismatched seats for two. Of course, this was just for appearances; never once was the other chair filled. It had remained empty for the past five years that Merlin had taken up residence within this apartment, caked beneath a layer of thick dust. He would never stay in one area for more than twenty years, and that was a stretch already; people would begin to question why the new college boy who moved in next-door still looks like the new college boy two decades later.    

Merlin’s thoughts constantly darted back and forth between the vivid replay of his memory and the fact that Arthur had been mostly silent for the past sixty minutes. Several times throughout the first half of that time span, he could’ve sworn he heard muffled sobs stemming from the bedroom. And each and every time he did, the weight of his heart multiplied within his chest.

God, this was supposed to go _so much better_ than it had. Merlin was supposed to be genuinely happy, reunited with most important person in his life after fifteen centuries of self-imposed isolation. He dreamt of this day each and every single night since Arthur had spent his final breath. Kilgharrah’s words _had_ to hold true, he repeated them over and over and over and over and over again within his mind every single wretched day. They had to. And now, his words were proven to be correct; but as for what reason, Merlin did not yet know. And that looming question, along with the way today events had transpired, compiled into this entire mess of an outcome. Be that as it may, Merlin’s heart was still flooded with joy at the fact that, despite everything, Arthur had returned into his life. It was like the cogs within his chest had begun to turn again after centuries of lying dormant under dust and cobweb.

But what could explain the fact that Merlin’s consciousness took a complete turn for the worse in that one moment while speaking to Arthur? This was so unlike any hallucination or relapse of memory he ever had before. And he has had many, _many_ of these haunting him throughout the years.

But this… this was something different. It was as though he had once again been in that field near Avalon, where his knees had collapsed beneath him and Arthur had begged him to stop. Where they lay in the field, his king dying in his arms, feeling the weight of his body pressed against his own in his suffering. Where Arthur grasped for Merlin’s hand and told him that there was nothing more he could do. With that unnervingly low and strong voice of his, even in his dying breath, delivering the last order his manservant would ever receive; to hold him.

_Just… Just hold me. Please._

Had the rest of the memory unfolded, there was no way Merlin could’ve sat in that room without collapsing. He was thankful to have been brought back to earth in time. Swallowing hard, Merlin tried to think of an explanation for the sudden time-travel his consciousness took. Nothing came to mind. Absolutely nothing.

Staring at the cleared table, he frowned. No, Merlin was not about to ask Arthur of anything else today; he would bring the meal to him. Just like old times.

Pulling out the largest and cleanest plate he could find from his cabinets, he piled on the food he had cooked, trying to make it look as neat and appetizing as possible. It had to be fit for a king, after all. He’d do anything to make the rest of this dreadful day easier for Arthur.

Taking a deep and uneasy breath, Merlin opened the door to the bedroom with the food in his hands. He didn’t anticipate seeing the state his friend would be in. With another sharp intake of air, he continued on his way.

“I-I thought you might be hungry…” he insisted quietly, relieved to see that Arthur looked relatively composed, reclined across the bed with his head leaning against the wall behind him. He was staring at the ceiling. Merlin could not read his expression.

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur responded, his face blank and his voice uncomfortably monotone. “But I’m not hungry.”

“Come on, Arthur. I bled myself dry trying to put this together,” Merlin chuckled weakly, placing the oversized dish onto the nightstand. Arthur did not laugh at this, however. His expression did not change at all, actually.

“How…” Arthur began in the same dead tone. “How could that much time have passed? How did I come back? I was _dead_.”

“Well… you are the Once _and_ Future King, Arthur,” Merlin whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed by his feet. “It was foretold by those before our time that our destiny would unfold as it did. What the dragon said… what he said was the future of our destiny. You’d rise again when Albion needed you the most.”

“You said that already,” Arthur breathed, shutting his eyes. “It’s just… hard for me to comprehend.”

“I know, and for that, I’m sorry I cannot comfort you more,” Merlin responded sincerely. “It’s been rather different for me.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur’s blank expression suddenly disappeared; his confusion and suspicion had returned. “Wait, how did you get here, then? How long after me did you… pass?” Quickly after this inquiry, his expression transformed into horror with his eyes widening in outrage as they met with a suddenly hesitant Merlin. “Wait, d-don’t tell me you-”

“Relax, Arthur,” Merlin reassured him gently. “I didn’t off myself after you… passed. Don’t worry.”

The fact of the matter was that Merlin was not entirely truthful with these words. Oh, how he tried. How he tried countless times over the span of his unending life, always destined to fail.

“Good,” Arthur sighed in complete relief, his face calm once again, completely unaware of the that cold truth. “I would’ve taken your head off myself if you had.”

“That would’ve been redundant, Arthur.”

“Shut up,” he chuckled softly, though the humor did not last. “But that… doesn’t explain how you’ve come back. How long after me did you… er…”

“Die?” Merlin shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Er… well, that’s the thing. I didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I… I’m immortal, Arthur.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“That wasn’t funny,” Arthur responded gravely, his eyes narrowing. “You’re _immortal?_ Since when have sorcerers been granted immortality?”

“Being, well… being _me_ is different than being just any sorcerer.”

“…Explain.”

“I’m not entirely sure myself, but, do you remember what Morgana called me? Back when… back when we were trying to get to Avalon? She called me Emrys. Technically, that is my true name. My name as the prophecy told it. And the name Emrys means immortal. It was part of my destiny, I suppose. You were destined to… die. And I’ve come to the conclusion that I was destined to live forever.”

“So you’ve been alive for-”

“The past one thousand, four-hundred and seventy-four years. Yes. I have.”

Suddenly, an uneasy silence fell between the two men. It stretched on for what felt like an eternity. No pun intended. Desperate to break it, Merlin looked to the food that sat, untouched, by Arthur’s side.

“You should probably start eating that,” Merlin whispered awkwardly. “It’ll get cold. I worked hard on it.”

“You didn’t use magic to make it?” Arthur inquired, sounding a little too serious for Merlin’s comfort.

“Of course I didn’t,” Merlin responded carefully, trying to smile. “Do you think I cut open my hand with a knife for fun?”

“So even after all this time…” Arthur trailed off, looking at him sincerely. Merlin swallowed.

“Since… y’know, back then, I haven’t used it much. Unless it was completely necessary, that is, but otherwise… no. I rarely use my magic.”

“Why?” Arthur continued to ask while slowly reaching for a slice of bread off the plate. “Gaius told me you were the greatest sorcerer to have ever walked the Earth. Why wouldn’t you use it? Especially after I died? It’s not like I was there to be uncomfortable about it, if that’s what would’ve concerned you. You didn’t have to worry about me anymore.”

“Arthur,” Merlin sighed, looking Arthur with the most earnest expression he could muster. “I don’t think you’ll ever really understand why I’ve chosen to live my life as I have. It just… well, I don’t want to tell you too much about it right now, because today has been difficult enough on you already. And I don’t think you want to know. But, I’ve never felt compelled to use magic to make my life easier. It’s not like my life has ever been easy to begin with, anyway,” he paused, chuckling bitterly without a single trace of humour. “I wasn’t about to change that after you… passed away. In fact, that only made me more determined to suffer.”

Wow, he ended that badly. And awkwardly. Extremely uncomfortably. That last bit wasn’t supposed to slip out.

“What the hell do you mean, ‘more determined to suff-‘”

“No, no, nothing, nothing,” Merlin shook his head. “You don’t want to hear about it, trust me. That’s a story for another time. Just eat. I’ll leave you to it, sire.”

“Don’t go calling me ‘sire’ and running away,” Arthur ordered, sounding thoroughly annoyed. Much like his usual self. It was quite the small relief to hear. “You’re going to stay right here and tell me about what I’ve missed in the past… oh, what? Fourteen centuries? Fifteen?”

Merlin froze as he tried to get away. Arthur expected a full story on what transpired in Camelot after his death. The thing was, he never went back to Camelot after Arthur died. All he had learned from the outside world was that it prospered for about several decades with magic allowed back into the kingdom, but fell into decline after Queen Guinevere’s death. And, of course, she never had a child with Arthur. There was no successor to follow her. Men fought for the throne, and thus, the kingdom fell apart under the pressure. The name Camelot had fallen to the status of myth after several centuries. How was he going to tell Arthur that his legacy is now remembered around the world as a particularly significant subject of _fictional literature,_ simply a topic to study at university and barely anything more?

“I will tell you everything in due time,” Merlin insisted in a weak voice, motioning toward the food left on the nightstand. “But now is not the time for storytelling. Eat.”

“So now you’re ordering me to do something for you, Merlin? Is that it?”

“I’m not ordering it for _me_. I’m asking _you_ to do it for your _own_ sake. And, besides, you said you didn’t want me to change for you. So, I didn’t.”

“Even after all this time?”

“Yes. Even after all this time.”

Arthur did not respond; instead, he just stared at Merlin with a grateful smile forming ever so slightly at the corners of his mouth. He looked sincere again. Just as he had always looked in happier days, long gone by.

“While you do that,” Merlin continued, ignoring the warmth that suddenly flooded his chest. “I’ve got to figure out what to do about…er, your clothes. Rather, armor.”

“Whass wron’ wiff et?” Arthur inquired while he stuffed his mouth with a pork chop, looking slightly offended.

“Oh boy.”

“What boy?” Arthur inquired after gulping down the food, looking confused again. Merlin tried hard not to let a chuckle escape his lips.

“No, nothing, that was just an expressi- nevermind. You stay here and finish eating and just relax. It seems as though I’ve got to plan a trip to the… um, the local tailor.”

“Are all of my clothes… gone?”

“Arthur, it’s been almost a thousand and a half _years_. Of course they’re gone.”

“Does all clothing look that hideous now?” Arthur asked, pointing distastefully at Merlin’s bloodied t-shirt and jeans.

“Still a prat, I see,” Merlin whispered below his breath as he made for the bedroom door.

“I heard that!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - Breaking the news of the fate of Camelot and that of those within it will not be an easy task for Merlin. And, of course, it definitely won't be easy on Arthur, either.
> 
> *Hopefully I'll be updating a little quicker for now on. Waiting a week to post made me really frickin' impatient.*


	3. A Glimpse Into The Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside of Merlin's apartment, there is a darkness spreading. And we shall quickly glimpse into that darkness through the eyes of an unsuspecting tax accountant whose boring, day-to-day life has taken quite the turn. A turn for the much, much worse.

Samuel Sutton was a quiet man, living a quiet life in Luton with his quiet wife and his quiet young children. Not much has ever happened in his fifty-two years that one could call remarkable; he was an average student in his younger days, and has been an even more average tax accountant for the past twenty-seven years. He might’ve once wanted to be an archaeologist traveling through Egypt, a successful historian dedicating his life to uncovering Greek relics, or even a professional helicopter pilot. Yes, back when the future was a distant prospect, even a man as boring as Samuel Sutton wanted to be someone exciting, someday.

But the cold truth of how dull adult life actually was for all except a handful of lucky, lucky people quickly rearranged Mr. Sutton’s priorities. And so, this man had given up the dream that maybe, one day, life would prove to be an unforeseeable journey of wonder and thrill and endless excitement. He settled on handling people’s taxes, making sure their mistakes would not cost them an arm or a leg. It was an okay job; it made him feel good about himself, helping others to the best of his ability. But that was all it was; an okay job. And, maybe once, Sutton was a man who did not want to settle for okay. But reality sunk in quickly. And he accepted that. Just as many others on this earth have.

And so, for the past fifty-two years, nothing truly remarkable ever occurred in this average man’s life. Graduation, marriage, childbirth; all of it, to the general attitude of society, were “gifts” and “miracles” and “wonders” in and of themselves. And sure, Samuel Sutton believed as much. They were all events that could very well fill a couple pages of his most prized photo albums. Obviously, if it can go in the photo album, it must be something big. It is even bigger if it can land on the exclusive shelf above the fireplace. To land that honour, it has got to be one hell of an event.

But what Samuel Sutton did not know, and would end up learning in the worst way possible, is that there actually _was_ something out there. Something more than the tedious day-to-day life he had come to accept. Little did he know that the dreams and stories he loved to hear as a young boy held some worth. Tales about powerful wizards and witches and elves and giants and trolls – tales he had been told by his mother before he finally succumbed to slumber every night. In reality, they were not as fictional as he might have reluctantly believed. No, not even close. Had he known this, well, maybe things might have been a little different in life. Would he have still been a tax accountant? A question to ponder, but never to be answered.

Mr. Sutton commuted to London daily; his tiny office was located there, squished between an Asian food market and a rather popular café that attracted many pretentious youths. But that didn’t bother Mr. Sutton. Nothing ever bothered this quiet man. Even after his boss downsized and relocated his office. Three times. In one year.

Nope, nothing ever bothered Mr. Sutton. Nothing at all.

The wife had reminded him that morning to stop by the bank and make a few withdrawals before going to work. With a kiss to her thin cheek before gathering his briefcase and heading out the door, he promised her he would. There’d be a nice meal of pot roast waiting for him that night. That was his favourite meal.

Wesson Bank was large and almost always crowded with busy and impatient patrons. But that never bothered Mr. Sutton. Nope, never bothered him, ever. He’d wait in the queue, patiently. And once he withdrew his sum, he’d be out of there in a blink of the eye. That was the plan each time.

But today, the atmosphere of Wesson Bank was strangely… off. Samuel Sutton couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was that made him feel slightly uncomfortable as he stood behind an angry businesswoman arguing loudly through her mobile. God have mercy on the poor chap on the other end of the line, he thought quietly to himself. But, by god, what was that strange feeling he couldn’t quite ward away?

Maybe it was the small yet solid group of men and women who had just marched through the front door in unison, wearing dark suits and dark ties. Probably the higher-ups. Did inspectors usually dress like this? Well, it was certainly not odd to see businesspeople march through the double doors. But these guys were different. They looked like they were looking for something. And they did not look happy.

Oh well, better let them get on with whatever they had to do, Sutton thought. They didn’t look like the type of people you wanted to idly chat to while waiting in queue. He looked away, waiting for the man up front to hurry up and finish his transaction already.

Not that it bothered him, or anything. Nope. Didn’t bother him at all.

Soon enough, everyone was staring at the group of scary suited folk. They were marching up to the front desk, still in a stiff unison, cutting ahead of the queues. Well that wasn’t very nice, Sutton thought. Good people had been waiting for many long minutes to reach the front desk. They ought to wait just as well.

This bothered Sutton. And nothing ever bothered this man.

“Now wait just one moment!” He shouted weakly amidst curses and cusses from the others who stood by, offended by the pretentious group. “There’s a queue, and you ought to respect that!”

The members of the group simply looked at each other, smiling deviously with a dark tint in their eyes. Oh, no. He shouldn’t have spoken out. They were probably just in a rush, is all. He shouldn’t have bothered them.

But there was no time for Samuel Sutton to apologize. A particularly brawny member of the group walked toward him. He lost his ability to speak. Staring wide-eyed at the approaching man, Mr. Sutton’s briefcase clattered from his sweaty palms and onto the ground. There was a dampness gathering beneath his graying tuft of thin hair.

The large man chuckled sinisterly. The entire bank had gone quiet. Samuel Sutton was about to soil himself.

“ _Og kelis_ ,” the suited man whispered. What on earth…?

His eyes flashed golden. There was a loud thud as Mr. Sutton’s lifeless body crumpled to the ground.

Almost immediately, the vicinity ruptured into chaos. There were screams from every corner as the frantic people dashed for the door, which did not budge upon their combined pressure, an inexplicable red glow radiating the edges of the heavy glass.

More thuds resounded throughout the building. Everything was happening so fast; bodies hit the ground as the darkly suited figures marched across the floor, waving their hands and muttering words that sounded more like angry gibberish than anything else.

“ENOUGH,” One of the suited murderers shouted fiercely to her companions, looking around at the dwindling population around her. She was a thin young woman with her blonde hair pulled back impossibly tight into a bun behind her head. Raising her hand, signaling for her friends to stop, she continued. “We are to adhere to our orders. The money is our top priority.”

After nodding in unison, they vanished into thin air. All was quiet.

All, except for the irritable businesswoman’s mobile, buzzing frantically as it lay beside Samuel Sutton’s balding head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every now and then between big chapters, I'll be including small chapters like these. I felt that it's time to give you all a small look at the big bads. Poor Samuel Sutton. 
> 
> I just wanted to give you guys a little something in between regular updates~


	4. You Win Some, You Lose Some

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is met with his latest foe; a pair of jeans. Meanwhile, Merlin meets an enemy of his own. His newest, most destructive enemy. And it is not a piece of clothing. No, it's not a stiff-necked Ralph Lauren employee. It isn't the icy wind outside of his apartment that threatens to freeze off the tip of his nose, either. 
> 
> It is Merlin's own mind. And it shows him no mercy.

Clothes. He needed to find clothes.

Pacing down the bustling street of the local plaza, Merlin looked around for any store that offered relatively nice clothing. Clothing that Arthur would hopefully not throw out the window. Damn. His car savings would be taking a massive blow just for a few articles of clothing that _might_ please him. The things he did for Arthur Pendragon.

Having bought most of his clothes from thrift stores and sales racks throughout the past century, having made his own prior to then, Merlin was not well versed with high-end retailers that offered trademark polo shirts and one hundred percent denim trousers. It was an even more complicated task when considering the guessing game of picking a size.

Snow continued to fall from the sky and upon the bustling, small town. Merlin had almost walked out of his apartment complex with his bloodstained clothing still on his back; big mistake. The kind old man who ran the lobby desk reminded him of the fact that he looked a bit macabre. Dashing upstairs and exchanging his soiled attire for a fresh new set of second-hand clothing, he had thanked the elderly sir once again for letting him know, and headed out the door into the freezing cold air outside once more.

Arthur pleaded to go with him, but Merlin would not have it. This was his first actual morning alive after fifteen centuries. He was certainly not ready to face the world outside of the flat. No, not even remotely ready. He couldn’t even face the majority of the flat as it was. Arthur couldn’t even understand half of what was in Merlin’s bedroom, alone.

Merlin directed him not to leave his bedroom. In fact, he told Arthur that it would probably be best if he remained in bed for as long as he was gone. He made sure to unplug and hide every single electronic in the house. He locked the front door and even reinforced it with a bit of magic. Just to make sure. It was basically extreme childproofing. Rather, Arthur-proofing.

It wasn’t even midday yet, though it felt like it had already stretched on for what Merlin felt to be at least half a century. Pulling his crimson scarf tighter around his face, he continued to walk past the line of shops that surrounded the street.

After spending about an hour and a half dealing with pretentious employees at some posh menswear department store located in the farthest end of the plaza _,_ Merlin walked out with two heavy bags gripped in each hand. His fears were confirmed; he blew at least a third of his meager car savings for the clothes. Dammit.

Merlin paced back to his apartment and hastily traveled to his bedroom, only to find it and the rest of his apartment empty.

He was about to have an aneurysm when he suddenly felt a gust of cold air come from the curtains on the other side of the living room. Sighing in relief and dropping the bags onto the floor, he made his way to the gently fluttering faded fabric and parted it to reveal Arthur leaning against the fence of the balcony.

The apartment was pretty shitty. That much was true. But, he had a nice view of the bustling town below from his spot on the seventh floor. That was something Merlin always appreciated about the tiny, shoddy living space.

But that meant Arthur was looking at the street. Filled with automobiles. And lorries. And motorcycles. And street lights. And people. Lots and lots of people in weird clothing that Arthur had never seen before. Uh oh.

“I’m, uh, back,” Merlin announced in a strangled voice. He just realized that Arthur was also standing there, above the populated street, while fully donned in medieval armor with a crimson cape billowing in the wind behind him. Where everyone could see him. Everyone.

“I don’t understand any of it,” Arthur muttered in a strained voice, slowly turning to walk back inside. He looked incredibly uneasy as he shoved past Merlin’s lanky figure as though he was part of the doorway. “I don’t understand any of it at all.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Merlin began cautiously, struggling the shut the sliding door that liked to jam every so often. “But I promise you, I’ll help you get through it. I’ll explain everything. I just need time.”

“I’d like to know what those contraptions on wheels are. At least, I think they’re wheels? They don’t really look like wheels, come to think of it.”

“No, you’re right,” Merlin assured Arthur as he finally slammed the sliding glass door and drew the curtains shut. “Those contraptions are called ‘cars’. And, those are wheels. They’re just a bit different than the wooden ones you’re used to seeing on wheelbarrows and carts and such.”

“So those are just… modern carts, then?”

“Something like that. Yeah.”

“Do you have one?”

“Er, no. But I want one.” Merlin admitted sheepishly, remembering the blow his funds for that purpose took while shopping for Arthur.

“Why haven’t you gotten one yet?”

“They’re expensive,” Merlin sighed, watching carefully as Arthur sat down upon the sofa. The metal of his armor clashed together. It was a nostalgic sound. “And, I don’t have the money for it. Not yet, at least.”

“I see.”

It went quiet again.

Merlin knew Arthur well enough to know exactly what he was keeping from him. He could tell how hard the man was working to stifle the dire realizations he must have already made.

Gwen was dead. Arthur was not at all stupid. And he knew better than to believe that there was a chance she’d still be around.

But, once again, he knew exactly what kind of person Arthur was. And even to Merlin, the only person Arthur knew he had left, he wasn’t about to express his loss. It must’ve felt like a day or two ago that he last spoke to Gwen. And now, he has realized that she, along with all those who were close to him, was gone. Long gone. Merlin could almost feel how hard Arthur was working to compose himself. He could feel the pain emanate from the other man’s slumped figure.

Merlin knew they’d end up having to talk about it at some point. He knew Arthur well enough. But for now, he wasn’t going to pry. It was Arthur’s turn to mourn. Merlin already had that time; a thousand and four hundred-something years of it.

His first century alone was, by far, the most difficult.  When he had learned of his other friends’ deaths during those days, it had been rough. Merlin did not have a shoulder to cry on. Refusing to leave Avalon and remaining isolated from civilization, he did not have words of comfort and soothing. Percival, alone, seemed to realize where Merlin had decided to remain. He was also the only familiar figure from Camelot Merlin would ever see again. When he learned from the knight, who every so often visited him for years to come, that the royal physician had passed away in his sleep a year after Arthur’s death and Merlin’s disappearance, he was shattered. His heart was already a bleeding, destroyed mess within his chest. Gaius’s death struck him severely. Merlin instantly regretted his previous choice to never return; but this second devastating strike to the heart made him even more sure in his refusal to ever step through Camelot’s walls again.

For some time after that, Merlin continued to learn of other deaths that further dealt his heart blows. Percival had told him of Gwaine’s death during the Battle of Camlann over a year after it happened. And when he found out that it had been at the hands of Morgana, his grief was interrupted with rage. Thirty or so years later, A young knight who had stumbled upon the lake while lost during his daily rounds informed Merlin of Percival’s death from an incurable illness. He mourned this loss very deeply, feeling the silence that had been slightly eased by Percival’s visits and unfailing friendship overwhelm him once again. Then, a decade later, he grieved Leon, who had long been married to Gwen and bestowed the title of king consort in order to make sure her place on the throne was never threatened. Another stranger of the kingdom informed Merlin that old age had taken him.

A long time after, he had finally heard the news that had passed through village by village and through neighbouring kingdoms – the news that Queen Guinevere of Camelot had passed on peacefully in her sleep at the ripe old age of eighty-seven. He had no more reason to speak with anyone else who’d pass the area. In fact, at that time, he felt that he had no more reason to speak with anyone, ever again.

And, even then, none of these deaths ever distracted him from Arthur’s. These painful memories had faded over time; the sense of their losses, forgotten as the incredibly long centuries went by. But not for _his_ death. Nothing could even come close to comparing to that particular loss. Losing Arthur was like losing the greater part of himself. There were no words that could describe the pain that endured the ages. None, whatsoever.

And, lo’ and behold, there he was. Sitting on Merlin’s couch in his shabby flat on the seventh floor of this dodgy old building.

Destiny was confusing. Confusing, terrifying, unpleasant, and unwelcome. But this particular part of it was okay. More than okay. Arthur was alive and well. Not dead and submerged beneath a lake.

Alive.

“I bought you some clothes,” Merlin began nervously, tip-toeing to the side of the couch. “You’re probably not going to like it, though. Clothes from this century are exceptionally different than what you’re used to.”

“I’m sure that everything from this century is exceptionally different than what I’m used to.”

“…Yeah,” Merlin swallowed anxiously, retrieving the bags. “I assure you, I’ve purchased the best quality garments the tailor had to offer. Don’t be fooled by the simplicity of today’s attire. It’s fancy stuff.”

Arthur rolled his eyes as he peered into the bags and pulled out what he found. A disgusted noise rose from the back of his throat.

“What the hell is this?” he seethed, holding out a pair of brand new, high-quality denim jeans in front of his reproachful face. That particular pair of trousers cost Merlin about a hundred and seventy pounds.

“They’re called jeans,” Merlin explained, slightly miffed at the lack of appreciation. “Everyone wears them. Part of the fashion of today, I assure you. It also cost me a hell of a lot of money.”

“Speaking of money,” Arthur stated, suddenly sounding very much like an excited little boy. “What of my wealth? Well, I’m sure that’s long gone, but… How about the castle? They always said it had been built to withstand eternity itself! What of Camelot? What does the kingdom look like, now?”

Uh oh. _Uh oh_. Merlin knew this would be brought up at some point. Camelot. Uh oh.

“Arthur,” Merlin gulped, feeling nauseated once again. “There’s… something else I need to tell you.”

“What other knife can you drive through my heart now, Merlin?”

“That’s not funny, Arthur.”

“Out with it.”

“You see,” Merlin began fearfully, averting his eyes from where Arthur sat. “Over the… time you’ve been dead, well… Arthur, it’s been an inconceivably long amount of time since you died. Please try to understand that no kingdom, no matter how great, can withstand the test of time-”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Arthur dropped the jeans onto the ground and got to his feet, looking as though he was about to chuck it all over the floor. “No. No, no, no, no, no, no, _nooo_. No.”

“Arthur…” Merlin grabbed at Arthur’s armored arm, trying to settle him down. It wasn’t working. “It’s been over a thousand years, it’s-”

“What happened?” Arthur demanded through his teeth, his chest heaving with the effort to stay calm. “You’re going to sit down, right now, and tell me what exactly happened after I died.”

“No, I can’t-”

“Yes, you will!”

“Arthur-”

“Merlin, you are going to tell me what exactly happened to Camelot after I was lost. Right. _Now_.”

He motioned to the sofa angrily, gesturing for Merlin to sit. Shaking nervously, he complied, looking up at Arthur’s uneasy expression.

“Arthur,” Merlin began, his voice barely above a whisper. “After you died, I did not return to Camelot. I only know what I know becau-”

“What?” Incredulous, Arthur glared down at the cowering figure below. “You never went back? Then where the hell did you go?”

“Nowhere!” Merlin shouted back, feeling the emotions break through his barriers once again. “I didn’t go anywhere, Arthur! I didn’t leave Avalon! I didn’t leave the lake! I stayed there, right by the shore for the next, what, two hundred and thirty-eight years? I couldn’t leave! I couldn’t do it!

“You stayed by the lake for _all_ that time?” Arthur inquired, his voice having suddenly dropped in volume tenfold. “Even after I died?”

“Like I said,” Merlin trembled, fighting tears back as hard as possible. “I don’t think you’ll ever understand why. But I couldn’t leave, Arthur. Not after that. For a long time, I thought I never could.”

“Merlin,” Arthur began in a sincere and hushed tone, taking a seat next to him. “Had I known the extent of pain to which my death brought you, I… Merlin. I am so sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Merlin laughed weakly, feeling a single tear trickle down the corner of his eye. He wiped it away quickly. “For dying? It’s not like that was your fault. If anyone is to blame, it should be me.”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur teased, lightly smacking the back of Merlin’s head. “I died by Mordred’s sword. Don’t you even try putting any of that on yourself.”

“But I was supposed to protect you,” Merlin whispered, a lump rising in his throat. “I knew I had to stop Mordred. I always knew. I tried so hard to stop him, to rewrite destiny… I tried _so hard!_ But… I failed. Each and every time.”

Tears continued to stream down Merlin’s face. He did not bother wiping them away. Placing a comforting hand on Merlin’s shoulder, Arthur sighed deeply.

“You didn’t fail me, Merlin. You never did. Not once. There was nothing more you could do for me. You said it yourself. It was my destiny. It was unavoidable.”

Merlin did not respond. He knew that was true. Kilgharrah had assured him he hadn’t failed; it was the opposite. The prophecy was fulfilled, peace was brought to Albion, and sorcery and society could live together as one. But for the past fifteen centuries, Merlin continued to strongly believe that, in the end, he _had_ failed his king.

“Enough of this,” Arthur continued before Merlin could open his mouth. “Tell me of what you had heard, then. Was… er, was… was Guine-… did she…”

“From what I had heard, Camelot prospered underneath Queen Guinevere’s rule,” Merlin assured Arthur, whose lips had begun to tremble as he blinked rapidly. “She was loved by the people. She was strong in her decisions and solid in her words. Gwen was an ideal ruler to follow you, Arthur. She was fully aware of the role she had to take up. And she did it with the utmost grace and aptitude.”

Merlin noticed the tears that pooled in Arthur’s eyes, but he knew better than to comment on it. He smiled reassuringly and patted his arms, ignoring the water that had returned to his own eyes.

“Did she… did she ever…”

“Well…” Merlin stared straight at Arthur, trying to steady his voice. He knew what Arthur wanted to know. He didn’t want to tell him. But he knew he had to. Clearing his throat, he continued warily.

“From what I had been informed, years after your death, her reign was threatened by those who wished for her abdication on the grounds of her marital status. You know… as your widow. Some argued the validity of her coronation. The daughter of a blacksmith, having grown up as a maidservant to Morgana… contemptible men wanted to take advantage of her roots. Fueled by utter idiocy and greed.”

“They out to have been imprisoned for their ignorance!” Arthur fumed, his hands forming fists. “How dare they ever question her on such grounds!”

“I, too, was angered by the news of her situation,” Merlin nodded fervently. He did not want to go on with his explanation, however. His throat went dry. “But, in order to avoid that… the court had suggested her union with Sir Leon.”

Arthur’s eyes widened with unpleasant surprise, but before he could speak, Merlin hastily continued.

“It was necessary to secure her place on the throne. But don’t come to any quick conclusions, Arthur,” he insisted sincerely, looking him directly in the eye with the most heartfelt expression he could give. “Her marriage to Leon meant absolutely nothing to how she felt about you. She _never_ stopped loving you. Not once. Don’t you dare think such a thing. And I tell you that, not only because of what I had heard from others, but from what I know. Because I knew Gwen. And I know, without the slightest doubt, that she loved you with every fibre of her being. And I know, with all my heart, that the love she had for you never ceased. Not even for a moment.”

Arthur smiled with loving gratitude as tears continued to roll down his face.

“And she lived to be very, very old, Arthur,” Merlin continued, putting a hand on his shoulder. “She lived to be a very old woman, and when she passed, it was peaceful. It was surrounded by the many, many people who loved her, and who she loved back with her big and unfailingly beautiful heart.”

At this, Arthur buried his face into his gloves. Merlin felt very much as though he were intruding within his privacy. Maybe he’d give him some time alone. Then, perhaps, he might cease to further inquire about Camelot’s fate. Taking up the opportunity, Merlin made to rise from his seat several moments later. Before he got far, however, he was unceremoniously pulled back down, plopping right next to the cold metal armor.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Arthur questioned with a trembling attempt at sounding light hearted. He was teary eyed, blinking rapidly. “Tell me. What… what happened next?”

“Well…” Merlin began, feeling very much uncomfortable. “I stopped caring about Camelot after the last person I had loved there was gone. What I know of what followed after Gwen’s passing, I learned centuries later. And… you will not find it pleasant.”

“Try me.”

“Can we please, please, _please_ not talk about this?”

“I beg of you, Merlin,” he pleaded with sincere, watery eyes that Merlin could not refuse. “I ask you this because it is utterly essential that I know of what has become of my kingdom.”

“Fine,” he sighed, averting his eyes. “Well… Gwen never produced an heir to the throne. Your side had no remaining relatives. Nor did hers. And, thus, the bone was thrown to the pack of dogs.”

“Oh, _no_.”

“From what I learned, some honorable men, and some rather dishonorable men, all fought over the throne. Camelot’s allies caught wind of the disarray that had befallen the kingdom. Without bloodshed, Camelot was claimed and divided among the allies, and, while the people and land remained, the kingdom of Camelot… became no more.”

Arthur did not audibly respond. Instead, he stared at the faded carpet below with an acute anger that even Merlin could feel as it emanated from his body.

“Arthur,” he continued anxiously. “It’s not like your legacy ever disappeared. Your people were still proud to have been part of your kingdom. They kept that pride with them, always. One thousand, four hundred and seventy-four years later, you are still the hero that parents proudly tell their children about. That teachers tell their students about. Arthur, Glorious King of the Celts. The Harbinger of Peace and the Unifier of the Kingdoms.”

“That’s so… _strange_ ,” Arthur pondered, narrowing his eyes. “You’re saying… people still know who I am? Even in this century?”

“Of course they do,” Merlin reassured him sheepishly, patting his back. “Well, obviously, history’s got a lot of it wrong. But you’re still the hero of Camelot and of your people.”

“What about you?” Arthur inquired, staring straight at Merlin. “We built the kingdom together. _You_ defeated Morgana. Not I. Without you, I’d be nothing. Camelot would’ve been lost as soon as I had taken the throne.”

“It’s complicated,” Merlin muttered apprehensively despite the warmth that had suddenly enveloped within his chest at his words. While there were many who did rightfully believe that Arthur and Camelot truly did exist, there weren’t many who believed that magic ever did. Few believed in Merlin’s existence. Though it did not bother him what the people believed, it did put him in an awkward position trying to explain it to Arthur. “Sorcery, from what I have witnessed throughout the ages, dwindled substantially. People have long since stopped believing in its existence. In fact, I haven’t heard of or seen another sorcerer in hundreds of years. As far as I’m concerned, or care, for that matter, I may very well be the last sorcerer alive.”

“You’re joking. Sorcery? _Gone_?”

“I have reason to believe the Old Religion and its teachings are lost entirely outside of own mind,” Merlin admitted solemnly, turning away. “So, yes, I suppose you could say that the art of sorcery is gone. I’m sure your father would’ve been happy to hear such news,” he remarked, laughing bitterly. “But the thing is, magic, itself, will never truly be lost. Magic is everywhere. It is eternally woven into the fibres of this earth. Even floating within the air we’re breathing right now,” he sighed, staring blankly at his trainers. “To the people of the world, however, magic is fiction. Made up. Fantasy and nothing more. If you genuinely believe in magic, you get looked at funny. If you claim you have it, you get put in special rooms and labeled insane.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. After all that trouble your people have gone through, this is the result?”

“Unfortunately,” Merlin mumbled, though, in all honesty, he was not as sad about that fact as he believed he should be. “As for the name Merlin… Yes, it is still associated with yours. But almost entirely as fiction. No one believes in what I’ve done. Rather, the people who’ve got the history books that sell don’t believe in _my_ legacy, anyway. I’m just a character in stories and games and other trivial things that only children seem to care about. But I don’t mind.”

“That’s bollocks!” Arthur shouted, furious. “They believe in _me_ but not in _you_? That’s absolute rubbish!”

“Well,” Merlin gulped. He had to tell him. “Not everyone believes in you, either. They just believe in me less.”

“Wait, wh-”

“No, what I said about you earlier was true. People do remember you. You’re a hero. Thousands upon thousands of tomes have been written about you and the history of Camelot. You’re recognized across every land that marks this earth! That’s all true, I swear!” his throat felt painfully dehydrated; he genuinely did not want to go on. “But that’s where it divides. Some believe in your existence. But others… well, many others don’t. To others, you’re just as fictional as I am. Regardless, you’re still considered a hero-”

“How the hell have I become a myth?” Arthur pined, looking severely offended. “How could the name of Camelot be thought of as invention? Do the people not know of our legacy? Have the historians of our day penned us off as nothing but farce?”

“The modern age is a pretentious one, Arthur,” Merlin sighed. “The historians of our days recorded history as it was. But much of today’s historians don’t accept the few surviving records of our time as the truth. Just because you and I never left a body to be buried, there’s no ‘proof’ in our existence. The days of believing in what our ancestors have handed down have long passed. The prophecies that have been woven into our lives since birth have been forgotten. The spiritual connections between our minds and the earth we walk upon have been overlooked. There’s nothing left of our past, Arthur. Our traditions are gone. Our beliefs, ridiculed. There’s nothing left, now. Nothing. The new age has made sure of that.”

The two simply stared at each other for several moments of utter silence. Arthur’s expression was unreadable. The distress in his eyes, however, was as clear as day. Such news was certainly unpleasant. Even so, it was the unfortunate truth. It was either tell Arthur now, or have him learn the hard way, later.

“I’ve been dead for such a long time,” Arthur sighed. He got to his feet and slowly paced around the room. “This is all just… too much. Too much.”

“I’m going to help you get through it, Arthur,” Merlin assured him as sincerely as possible. “I promise, I’ll be there with you every step of the way. You’ll be fine. You’ve got me.”

“I know,” Arthur responded, laying a gracious hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “And I’m glad I do. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else by my side.”

“Now you’re just making me blush,” Merlin teased. Warmth flooded his chest.

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur responded, sending another smack to the back of Merlin’s head. “Though, it seems you no longer have to take orders from me, anymore. I’m not a king.”

“You’ll always be my king, Arthur,” Merlin responded meaningfully. “And I’ll always be your servant. Till the day I die, remember? I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Arthur smiled warmly, sending another smack, though notably gentler and much more affectionate this time, to the backside of Merlin’s head.

 

* * *

 

 “Alright,” Merlin began as he pulled out all the brand new garments out of the shopping bags, smiling brightly. This was going to be fun. And by fun, he meant difficult and filled with tantrums. “First things first. Fashion. You absolutely cannot be walking around in public wearing armor. Or wielding a sword. Or donning a cape. Definitely not a cape.”

“What?” Arthur frowned, peeking down at his attire. “Are you telling me nobody cares about proper protection anymore? Has this age lost its common sense, as well?”

“Give the present more credit,” Merlin snickered, feeling a little bad for the amount of crap the two have been giving the 21st century. It wasn’t that bad. They had iPods. Those were pretty neat. Merlin quite enjoyed music. “The people haven’t lost their pride and honour. Rather, they’ve decided to show it in other ways. But no one goes around wearing their monarchal crests anymore. That went out of date about a hundred years ago.”

“But I’m a _king_ ,” Arthur insisted, crestfallen. “Er, I _was_ a king. That’s just… My goodness. It feels as though I’ve just left Camelot for Camlann, not even three or four days ago.”

“Does it really feel like that?” Merlin inquired, feeling a little sad about the fact that he, himself, had almost no memory left of what Camelot looked like. Or the people in it.

“Yes,” Arthur sighed, unclasping his wrist guards and pulling off his gloves. “Even my wound still pains me.”

The two both looked at the bloodstain that remained upon Arthur’s chainmail. Merlin felt the color drain from his face.

“Is it… Is the chip of Mordred’s blade still… there?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur responded blankly, pressing on the dark spot upon the small metal rings. “I mean, it feels sore, but… it’s not at all like it was then.”

“Avalon was supposed to heal you,” Merlin gritted his teeth, worried. “Let me take a look.”

“Merlin, I’m sure it’s nothing-”

“I’m not risking anything, Arthur,” he indicated with a deathly serious tone. “Not again. Get up.”

Arthur rose to his feet with a sigh as Merlin got to work untying and unclasping the different components of his chainmail. When it finally loosened from his torso, he pulled it off and laid it gently upon the sofa. Museum curators would pay millions upon millions for this armor. They’d probably even kill for it. They’d show no mercy if they could get their hands on it.

The crimson tunic he wore beneath was torn and stained dark in the same area where the wound had been. Lifting the coarse fabric carefully, Merlin examined the warm, pale skin where the wound had been on his abdomen. There was nothing but a jagged red line that very much resembled a fresh scar.

“It’s healed over,” Merlin stated hesitantly, staring back up at Arthur. “Look. There’s just a scar.”

Laying his fingers upon his side where Mordred had impaled him, Arthur’s brows furrowed in confusion. Merlin looked at him nervously; there was no way of knowing if the chunk of blade was still within him. Even so, it looked completely healed.

“That’s strange,” Arthur whispered unsurely, still pressing against his battle scar.

“If it begins to bother you, you must let me know immediately,” Merlin stressed, feeling very anxious. He didn’t want to have to cut Arthur open unless completely necessary. Even so, the man would be in good hands; Merlin had graduated from medical school seventeen times in the past two hundred years and owned a drawer stuffed with crumpled doctorates in various shades of yellow and brown.

“Don’t worry, I will,” Arthur sighed, standing still as Merlin went about dismantling the rest of his armor. “You know you don’t have to do this for me, Merlin.”

“No, I want to do it,” Merlin admitted sheepishly. As much as he hated doing this back then, it brought him nothing but fond memories and a nostalgic happiness now. “It feels like home.”

“Home?” Arthur snickered. Merlin felt his throat go dry. “Having to deal with my incessant calls for help trying to put on my clothing was home to you?”

“Camelot was my home,” Merlin sighed, folding Arthur’s cape and placing it on top of the dismantled chainmail. “It will always be my home. And, yes, dealing with an entitled prat who couldn’t pull a shirt over his own head was very much home to me.”

“Thank you Merlin,” Arthur responded sarcastically, though his voice was audibly warm. “I’m touched.”

“Your welcome, sire,” Merlin muttered as he crouched low and began to take apart Arthur’s heavy metal boots. “Tell me about Camelot.”

“Er, what?”

"Tell me about Camelot,” Merlin repeated with a voice barely louder than a whisper. “What it looked like. The sounds. The people. Our friends.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Arthur inquired seriously, turning around to look down at Merlin, who refused to look back up. “Wait. Do you… Do you not…”

“I don’t remember,” he responded as a heavy lump rose in his throat. “I don’t remember anything about Camelot other than what I learned of its fate following your death. And, well, you.”

Arthur did not respond. From what Merlin saw out of the corner of his eyes, it seemed as though he didn’t know how to respond. His expression was torn. Sorrowful.

“I told you all I remember,” Merlin admitted quietly, untying the endless laces that ran up the ancient boots. “I… I want to know what Gaius looked like. And sounded like. I want to remember Gwen. And Gwaine. And the rest of the knights. Leon, Percival, Elyan… oh, and Lancelot. Camelot’s halls. Your bedchambers. The barracks. All those things. Promise me you’ll tell me about them someday.”

He still would not respond. Merlin sighed deeply, continuing before he could open his mouth.

“You don’t have to now, and I understand. I understand completely. I don’t want you to. But whenever you’re ready, please tell me. Because I really would like to know.”

Swallowing hard in his strongest efforts to push back the strangling lump in his throat, Merlin pulled the boots from Arthur’s feet and laid them out side by side. The armor and the sword were taken care of. He’d make sure to polish them daily; it was all Arthur had left of Camelot, now.

Speaking of Arthur, he was still quiet. He hadn’t responded. He just stared at Merlin, who refused to stare back, with eyes that spoke deeply of pity and sadness.

“I can’t have you out looking like this,” Merlin started, scrutinizing the medieval outfit that kept Arthur warm beneath his armor. The man genuinely looked as though he had just come back from a Dungeons & Dragons convention. “You’d be the laughing stock of the town.”

“Merlin,” Arthur whispered, ignoring Merlin’s quips with the same expression he had on his face a moment before. “What you must’ve endured throughout the years, I can’t even imagine. I’m so, so, _so_ incredibly sorr-”

“It’s all right, Arthur. It’s what happens when you get old,” Merlin smiled weakly. “You start forgetting things. And you can’t help it. Everything just fades over time and then, well, they disappear. But you will tell me one day, won’t you? Please.”

“I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Speaking of aging,” Arthur began, composing himself and looking more than eager to change the subject. “Tell me, Merlin – why don’t you look like a dried-up plum? You’re telling me it’s been over a thousand years, but… You haven’t changed. You’re still the same tree branch without an ounce of meat on your bones. Just… your clothes are different. And your hair is a little odd. No, wait. Your hair has always looked a little odd.”

“Thanks for that one, Arthur,” Merlin chuckled, running his hand self-consciously through the black mess on his head. Hey, it wasn’t that bad. He liked his hair. “Anyway, I’m almost positive I stopped aging as soon as you… As soon as the prophecy was fulfilled.”

“What makes you think _that_ is the reason?” Arthur pondered, tilting his head.

“Hmph,” Merlin pondered how to respond. Why he thought so was difficult to put into words. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. And, well, we are the two sides of the same coin of destiny, aren’t we? I figured, by dying, you’ve frozen in age. And I noticed something odd as the years went by. I just… didn’t change. At all. No wrinkles, no spots, no signs of aging. First time I noticed was when I saw my reflection in the lake one day, decades after you died. I came to the conclusion that I must’ve frozen in age, too. It seemed that we continued to correspond in destiny, even after your death. Perhaps, whoever controls all this prophecy stuff wanted us both to be in top shape for when Albion needed us again?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur groaned, unceremoniously plopping down onto the couch. “I’ve grown tired of all this destiny business. Regardless, I’m glad you’re still the same. Er, not that I would’ve liked you less if you were old or anything, it’s just, uh, a lot more comfortab-”

“No need to explain, Arthur,” Merlin chuckled. “I understand. I wouldn’t want to deal with a rotted skeleton. Not that I would’ve thrown you back into the lake, or anything.”

“You really would’ve done that?”

“’Course. If it was your creepy skull that emerged from that lake, I’d have smacked you back under the waters and ran for it.”

“I appreciate it, Merlin. Really. I do.” Rolling his eyes, Arthur retrieved the shopping bags from the ground and pulled out the rest of the garments.

Merlin wasn’t sure if Arthur was about to rip the fabric in half or throw it out the window. The expressions that he witnessed on the other man’s face were indecipherable. But he could gather this much; the man didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“What kind of fabric is this?” Arthur seethed, holding out a pair of jeans in front of his face. He looked utterly disgusted.

“It’s called denim,” Merlin rolled his eyes. “And that’s the highest quality denim out there, I made sure of it. My wallet took a severe blow for that one.”

“Wallet?”

“It’s what you hold money in,” Taking out his own wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, Merlin threw it into Arthur’s lap.

“What’s all this?” Arthur inquired as he pulled out the various plastic cards (that included many fake identification cards from over the years) and folded pounds and shining coins that were tucked into each and every pocket. Great. Merlin had spent an hour trying to organize that thing a few days ago.

“Money,” Merlin sighed. “Be careful with all that, please.”

“Where’s the gold?” Arthur complained, taking out the individual articles of paper money and staring at them profoundly. “Do you not use gold in this century?”

“Gold isn’t used for money anymore,” Merlin stated as he snatched his wallet back out of Arthur’s hands, hastily tucking everything back in. “We use pounds, pence coins, and, for when we don’t have enough money in our pockets at the time, we use credit cards,” he explained, holding up an example of each respective piece of currency. “There are different kinds of each, all holding a certain value, and must be used carefully.”

“That sounds needlessly complicated,” Arthur grumbled, folding his arms into his chest. “There is absolutely no way I’m going remember all this.”

“It just takes some time and effort,” Merlin assured him, tucking the wallet back into his pocket. “And, like I said, I’ll be there every step of the way. Besides, I’m not going to let you handle the money. At least, not yet. Leave that to me.”

“Fine by me,” Arthur muttered, picking up the pair of jeans in his hand again. “Now, for this obstacle.”

“Right. It’s easy, you jus-”

“Merlin,” Arthur got to his feet, looking serious with purpose. “I’m a grown man. I know how to put on clothing.”

“Really?” Merlin snickered. “So where was this ‘grown man’ during all those times you called for me to pull your arm through a damn sleeve?”

“Shut it,” Arthur rolled his eyes as he gathered up the rest of the clothes and headed to Merlin’s bedroom. “I can do this on my own.”

“Whatever you say, sire.”

It took Arthur about an hour and a half to get through the process of changing his clothes. Rather, the actual changing part was surprisingly quick, aside from putting on jeans, which was a nearly impossible task for him to accomplish on his own. But no matter how many times he looked in the mirror, he looked reproachful. Nothing was quite “regal enough to exemplify his nobility”. He switched out of shirts and trousers and shoes constantly, literally going through every possible combination that could be conceived. But in the end, he chose to go with the very same jeans he fought his latest battle against, along with a crimson collared shirt whose price tag had given Merlin an aneurysm.

He had desperately hoped he could return that one. But, as long as the king was, er, somewhat happy, he was too. But he still wasn’t all that happy.

“This is, by far, the absolute most uncomfortable and miserable experience I have ever had the utter misfortune of having to endure in my entire life!”

“Relax, Arthur,” Merlin sighed, thoroughly exasperated with the ordeal. “It looks perfectly fine on you. You’ll get used to the jeans. Eventually.”

“Please tell me people do not sleep in these chokeholds you call trousers?” Arthur pleaded. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a man has met his end wearing these wretched tools of torture. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m the next victim.”

“Something tells me that whoever decided it was time for you to wake up from death itself is not going to let you die from a garment,” Merlin insisted, hanging up the rest of Arthur’s new clothing in his own closet. The new garments shone brilliantly against his lackluster, worn shirts and sweaters. Slightly miffed, he slid its doors shut.

“That reminds me,” Arthur inquired, checking himself out in the mirror as he toyed with his collar. “Have you any idea as to why I’m breathing?”

“I’m afraid I know just as much as you do on the matter,” Merlin sighed. “Absolutely nothing on television has indicated of any threats that may pertain to, er, Albion’s peace.”

“Television? Merlin, now you’re just making up words.”

“Right,” Merlin’s face snapped up with a bright smile as he grabbed Arthur’s arm and towed him out of the bedroom. The television. He couldn’t wait to see the reaction this one would get.

 But Merlin did not yet know about the uproar in London that was just beginning to hit the media. 

 

* * *

 

The rest of their first full day of reunion went by slowly, but very much happily. Merlin showed Arthur the magic of television; it took rather long for him to accept the fact that it was not the warlock’s magic that powered it. Arthur feared that it was part of some big, slapstick sorcerer joke of Merlin’s doing meant to antagonize him for his lack of modern knowledge. A big “ha-ha!” for being dead for over fifteen centuries. To put it to simpler terms, Arthur was damn suspicious. Merlin spent a good chunk of the day laughing like a child, feeling the wind leave his stomach and having to take many a moment to regain his composure. Well, only to find himself laughing again.

But this was nice. This was beyond nice. This was perfect, amazing, incredible; there were truly no words to express how Merlin felt. Arthur had been gone for a thousand, four hundred, seventy-four years, for goodness sake! He had been alone for an indescribably long amount of time. The last time Merlin was able to smile this genuinely, to laugh this whole-heartedly, and to beam this brightly… it’s been a while, to say the least. And, even though Merlin hadn’t the faintest idea as to why the king had woken from his eternal sleep, nothing could damper his joy.

Well, there _was_ something that could damper his joy. Had they flipped through a few more channels and landed on the news, things would’ve been _very_ different. Had Merlin tuned in at that moment to hear about the chaos that had struck London at around midday, he certainly wouldn’t have been smiling.

But, for the time being, he and Arthur remained blissfully unaware of the unsettling truth. Just because they were three measly channels short of it. And that was okay. Because, finally, the dust had been wiped off his heart. The gears kicked into motion again, turning together in harmony and warming every corner of his chest. He could _feel_ again. The blood run through his veins, the heat pooling in his cheeks, each and every individual beat of his heart.

Merlin felt something again. It had been a long time since he had felt anything.

And, as he peered at Arthur gazing at the rickety old television with the most profound expression of utter disbelief, Merlin welcomed the feelings back into the confines of his heart. The cobwebs had been pushed aside.

All in all, their first full day back together again started off with difficulty. But, by the time Arthur had passed out on the couch after watching a marathon of _Hollyoaks_ with absolutely no understanding as to what he was witnessing and hearing or why he was still looking at it despite it all, everything had fallen into place quite nicely. He had broken the more difficult news to Arthur without the backlash that he feared the most. But that’s what began to concern Merlin. Perhaps he was reacting a little _too_ calmly?

Today was a day meant for Arthur to adjust, even if it meant ever so slightly. The first step in a process that would be very, very, _very_ long. And difficult. And exhausting. Arthur had accepted the terrible news that Merlin was very much reluctant to break to him; be that as it may, Merlin was not dumb. No, not at all. He sensed the shock that flooded the lost man’s body and mind. He knew that it hadn’t entirely registered within his comprehension. The immediate news was awful, and he expected Arthur’s teary reaction. But the long-term was what Merlin knew he had to look carefully for; the realization that literally everything and everyone Arthur had once known was gone, and that it had to sink into his head at some point. There was literally nothing left in the world (well, other than Merlin himself) of Arthur’s life, save for the countless books that historians and authors alike had written throughout the many, many years as poor attempts to document his life and his kingdom. Soon, this would all dawn on him, and how it would, Merlin couldn’t even begin to imagine. All he knew was that he had to be there for Arthur every step of the way.

But… there was just something too troubling about Arthur’s underwhelming reactions that seeded worry in the pit of Merlin’s stomach. So much for that undampered joy.

Aside from that, Merlin had also succeeded in changing Arthur’s wardrobe and getting him to accept that television was, in fact, _not_ an act of sorcery of the highest caliber. That was just about the only other thing he was able to accomplish that day, however. The vast majority of the hours of the day ended up with Arthur flipping through the television channels, fascinated by the power the remote control held, and completely unable to comprehend how he could view into separate dimensions through a small window with just a press of a button. It just made no sense. None whatsoever.

Thankfully, it seemed to take Arthur’s mind off a plethora of terrible things he could’ve been thinking about. Merlin was beyond glad. As many days as he could put off without the man dwelling on his thoughts, the better. Meanwhile, Merlin spent the rest of his day tidying his tiny apartment, including fluffing the faded blankets and lumpy pillows on his bed and transforming his bedroom into a room as fit for a king as possible (which was not very fit at all, really), but did so happily. Cooking, cleaning, and safely moving all potential objects that could electrocute an unsuspecting Arthur was fine with him. As long as he was comfortable and gazing, awestruck, at the television, that was fine.

It was around midnight when Merlin could hear light snoring stem from the couch a little ways away from the kitchen counter. Putting down a soggy towel and several soapy dishes, he made his way to Arthur, who had finally dozed off, slumping uncomfortably over the arm of the couch.

“King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot,” Merlin muttered quietly to himself, chuckling lightly. “Falling asleep on the sofa while watching soap operas. Unbelievable.”

Smiling, Merlin lightly roused him from his slumber (much to Arthur’s discordant mutters of annoyance) and lugged him to his bedroom, unceremoniously dropping him onto the creaking mattress and tucking him in. Sleeping on the couch wasn’t too bad, Merlin thought to himself. Arthur deserved the bed. Lying lifeless on a cold wooden boat in the middle of an ancient lake for almost a millennia and a half probably wasn’t a very pleasant experience. Even for a dead guy.

“Meeeer…liiin….” Arthur suddenly whispered half consciously, weakly motioning his hand for him to come closer.

“What is it?’ Merlin whispered in response, slightly confused as he leaned down.

“Thank you.”

And, suddenly, it happened again.

Everything went black for a short moment before Merlin suddenly found himself struggling on the ground, with a ghastly pale Arthur in his arms, their faces a few inches apart. The dying man resting upon him looked directly at him with his striking blue eyes that were beginning to lose their sparkle.

“Thank you,” he said in a broken voice filled with a tender gratitude that blasted through Merlin’s heart and tore it into jagged pieces. Arthur weakly raised his arm and grabbed his head; the warm leather pressed against his scalp, gripping tightly as though he was afraid to let go.

A feeble smile pulled at the corner of his bloodless lips. Merlin could feel his heart and soul violently tear through his chest all over again. The pressure on his hair released, the hand falling to his side. And soon enough, Arthur’s eyes relinquished their strong hold on his own, turning away ever so slightly, and, finally, gazing into an expanse that wasn’t there.

And then, Merlin was back in his bedroom, met immediately with a snore as Arthur had drifted back into a comfortable sleep.

Stumbling out of his room, Merlin panicked. His stomach was in knots and his heart beat rapidly, threatening to tear its way out of his chest. He clung to the side of the kitchen counter with slick palms that struggled to maintain a solid grip. Forehead dripping with sweat, Merlin forced himself to breathe evenly. To think clearly. To calm down and figure out why the hell this… this… there really was no name for it. Why this ‘thing’ kept happening to him.

_What the hell?_

He was panicking. The anxiety and pain was threatening to overwhelm him. Anxiety and pain was an all-encompassing entity that constantly weighed upon Merlin’s shoulders throughout the long years. In fact, he had spent the majority of his life since Arthur’s death dealing with it in various ways. Very few of these ways were what you would call healthy. Magic couldn’t solve these kinds of problems.

Swallowing hard, Merlin dashed to his cabinets and yanked them open. He struggled as he pulled out numerous bottles of liquor. Cursing, he realized they were all empty; he had been doing well for a while, and hadn’t felt the need to restock in a long time. This made him panic even more. He had used up all of one of his most useful crutches in situations like these. His eyes flashed gold; bottles fell and smashed onto the ground into thousands of crystalline pieces as he sank to the floor, defeated.

Merlin dealt with relapses of his memories on a daily basis. In his dreams – rather, nightmares – he’d see it happen all over again, and again, and again, and again in his mind. He’d fight the pain that came with these relapses in as many ways as he could; ways that would make others cringe in shock and horror. Alcohol, however, was one of his most frequent and relatively least harmful sources of “calm”, if you could call it that.

But that was just fighting the pain. Knowing you’re alone, utterly alone, failing, feeling the blame, and having it haunt you for eternity is another thing entirely. Dealt with in entirely different and entirely more self-destructive ways.

This, however, was something completely different than simply having a subconscious relapse of memory. Faded memories could not compare with the experience that he had just gone through. It was literally, genuinely, _entirely_ as though he had been on that field just short of Avalon on that fateful day so long ago. The day his life ended with Arthur’s. All his senses were present; he could feel the bitter cold of Arthur’s armor, the texture of the soft leather glove as it pressed against his head, the piercing blue of his eyes and the profound gaze that he held to Merlin throughout his final moments. His voice. Arthur’s voice.

Merlin barely felt the shards of glass pierce into his hands as he blindly gripped the suddenly hazardous tile floor of his kitchen. He leaned his head back against the cold oven, blinking rapidly in a halfhearted attempt to scatter away the vivid imagery of what he had just re-experienced.

What the hell was going on? Why now, as soon as Arthur was back in his life? Destiny, or whatever the hell it was that seemed to control his life against his will, wasn’t too keen on Merlin being happy, it seemed. Ever.

Merlin was close to hyperventilation; he could feel his lungs constrict as the anxiety and fear expanded from his heart and threatened to flood the entirety of his body. His inhaler was in his bedroom; he couldn’t go in there. No, definitely not now. It was a blessing that Arthur had not been roused awake by the sound of shattering glass.

Arthur couldn’t know about this. Goodness, no. This wasn’t something Merlin wanted on his conscience. The poor man was already incredibly lost and distraught by his own issues; knowing about Merlin’s pain would not make that any better. He knew Arthur well enough to know how he’d react to any indication of the reality of Merlin’s terrible situation. Keeping him ignorant was the best way to keep him away from hurling over the edge

If it meant Arthur would remain happy, then Merlin was far, far more than willing to suffer in silence. Besides, he’s been doing it for the past thousand, four hundred something years. It’s been rough to say the very least.

But right now, it was hard to stay silent. It took every ounce of Merlin’s restraint to keep from screaming aloud in pain as it repeated in his head.

_Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you._

_Shut up. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP!_

Merlin struck his head against the metal behind him repeatedly; Arthur’s voice was so vivid, so real, so incredibly heartbreaking and raw and everything as it was back when it had actually happened. There it was again. All of it. His voice. His eyes. His hand. His voice. His words. His face. His voice. His eyes. His eyes. His voice. His eyes. His voice and his eyes. Arthur. Arthur. _Arthur_. Arthur is _dying_. Arthur is dying in your arms, Merlin. Your arms. He’s dying, and this time, he won’t be coming back. Arthur. _Arthur_. Arthur Pendragon is dying. There’s nothing you can do about it, Merlin. Arthur is dying. Arthur. _Arthur_. Arthur Pendragon. Arthur’s eyes. Arthur’s voice. Arthur is dying. You failed everyone.

 _You failed him_.

Arthur is dead.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, to nothing and to no one.

And with a couple more blows against the rusty metal oven, the lights in his head finally went out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to post this chapter a little earlier than I originally planned; a massive blizzard is making its way to my state, and my power is more than likely going to go out. So, I figured, I might as well put it up tonight. Just to make sure. c:
> 
> I told you there was going to be a lot of angst. A lot of it.
> 
> Anyway, next chapter will be up sometime next week! Thank you all so, so, so, so, SO much for the wonderful feedback you've been giving me. It means the world to me! Just, thank you. So much.
> 
> Thanks to my best friend Jill for picking apart this chapter and helping me right all my many, many, many writing wrongs! You are the best beta. ;u;


	5. The Issues At Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin recovers from his accident, but he isn't fooling Arthur from drawing his own conclusions. Not to mention, teaching an "old dog" new tricks poses a new challenge of a very, very different kind. But nothing can quite compare to the dire situation that discreetly grows in the shadows, a situation that Merlin finally catches wind of.

“Merlin!”

Someone was calling him, it seemed. A very distant voice, sounding hazy and cloudy but familiar. Very familiar.

“Merlin? Merlin!”

Something was tugging at his shoulders. Okay, now it was tugging him violently. Better check and see what it might be.

It turned out Merlin’s eyes did not want to open, however. To be quite honest, he didn’t put all too much effort into trying. Too much work-

A searing pain abruptly surged from his head and traveled through his body. Merlin’s scalp stung harshly. Everything felt sore. Everything felt sticky and damp. Everything was incredibly uncomfortable. What happened?

“Wake up, Merlin! Wake up!”

Wrenching his heavy lids open with the utmost reluctance, Merlin found himself staring straight into frightened blue eyes several short inches away.

With another surge of indescribable pain, Merlin immediately remembered what had happened.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispered, still rustling him by the shoulders. His eyes were filled with genuine worry as he gently slapped him in the face. “Hey, Merlin – are you with me? Hey!”

“Mmgh…” Merlin blinked rapidly, his eyes darting back and forth between the glass on the floor and the blood smeared against the tiles underneath his hands. “… Oh! Damn!”

Rushing to his feet without a second thought, Merlin grossly miscalculated the consequences. The pain seared behind his eyes and sent him tipping over, nearly hitting the ground before Arthur reached out to catch him around the waist.

“What on earth happened to you?” He inquired, distressed and attempting to balance an increasingly red-faced Merlin on his own two feet. “I was jolted from sleep by the sound. I came to see what was going on and… this…”

“S-sorry, s’nothing,” Merlin wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. His mouth was spewing lies before he could even begin to think about what to say. “I was… I was just putting away some dishes and glasses into the cupboard and… and I… I think I might’ve knocked over something? And that must’ve knocked over… something else… and I… I think I got knocked in the head by a glass or something, because the next thing I knew, you’re here, rattling me to death.”

“How did you manage _that_?” Arthur sighed, looking somewhat relieved. “For all your magic, Merlin, you can’t even return a few goblets- er, glasses or whatever – to their shelves?”

Well, Arthur had asked him to never change. For him to always be him. Even if it meant convincing him that he was still the same bumbling, clumsy manservant he had been back then. Even if it did discredit him quite a lot, as well.

“But…” Arthur gently tugged on Merlin’s shoulders and turned him around. Merlin could feel the other man’s eyes scrutinizing the raw wound that throbbed upon the back of his head. “What managed to do this kind of damage? It looks as though you’ve been bashed in with the hilt of a sword... I came in here thinking you’ve been attacked, for goodness sake!”

Merlin could see the confused distress upon Arthur’s face as his eyes peered at the scene before him.

“There’s a _lot_ of blood, Merlin.”

Merlin swallowed hard as he peered at the ground where bloody shards of glass had been scattered around the floor. A small splotch of half-dried blood painted the rusted steel of the stove. It did look a little bit as though a battle had taken place.

“I assure you it was an accident and nothing more,” Merlin said, clasping Arthur’s shoulder as reassuringly as possible. He almost fell over again in the process. “Head wounds bleed more than others, you know.”

Being the immortal that he was, Merlin could not die. At least, it was very hard to kill him. The years that passed, quite obviously, did nothing to his physical health.  However, he was still a human, and his wounds were as raw and real as any other injury on any other man. Sure, he healed a little bit faster than others, depending on the severity of the damage. You cut off his head, and it would find its way back onto his neck. Hit him with a car, he’ll get back on his feet soon enough. Run him over with a train, no problem; get him to a hospital and the doctors will marvel at the medical miracle that he is after he checks out of the office a few days later. But, oh, did he feel the pain. The pain never lessened. It was just Merlin who got used to it after a thousand something years.

There was one thing that could kill him, however. Two, actually. Two swords. Two swords, both forged in dragon’s breath over a thousand and four hundred years ago. One that had long lain upon Arthur’s chest after Merlin pushed the boat out into the lake. The other, like hell if he’d know. Last he had seen of the immortal blade, it lay beside the lifeless body of a boy who Merlin had long come to forgive. Because this boy, much like himself, had been lost. He had been ripped apart between the grasp of both good and evil. A lost boy, an unfortunate soul, whose vulnerable heart had been his downfall.

It was a strange thought for Merlin to dwell upon. The only thing on Earth that could kill him was suddenly leaning against the wall in the back of his closet.

Strange, in that it brought forth a mixture of uneasiness and reassurance.

“Are you positive you’re alright?” Arthur insisted, his hand on Merlin’s back as he sought to balance the dangerously swaying man. “Have you any physicians or apothecaries nearby that I could find? I’m… not very skilled at treating to wounds-”

“I can take care of it myself,” Merlin sighed, gingerly touching the wound on his head. It was raw, burning with a pain so intense that he felt nauseated. “Don’t worry about it, Arthur. When did you become such a worry wart?”

“Shut up,” Arthur rolled his eyes, turning red. He didn’t seem all too relieved, however. “Where is your broom?”

“What do you need a broom for?” Merlin responded as the pain pounded in his head, looking at Arthur incredulously at the sudden request.

“Don’t be stupid,” Arthur rolled his eyes, gesturing at the mess below. “You’re not cleaning up anything in that state.”

“No, I cannot let you do that,” Merlin insisted, blinking rapidly as he tried to push Arthur out of the kitchen with very little effort. He didn’t budge at all from the feeble shoves.

“You can’t make me do anything. According to you, you’re still my manservant.”

“And that is precisely why I’ll be sweeping the kitchen, and you’ll be going back to sleep,” Merlin stated, suddenly noting that the sky was still dark outside. He struggled to glance at the clock on the counter through blurred, unfocused eyes; it was only three in the morning, and only now did he see that the lethargy of sleep was clear on Arthur’s face.

“I’m not tired,” Arthur claimed, though his statement was betrayed by an untimely yawn directly after his statement. Merlin chuckled.

“I’m not afraid to use my magic if it comes to it,” he joked, wincing as the shards of glass embedded in his bloodied hands seared painfully. Arthur noticed.

“Can’t you use your magic to do something about that?” he inquired, staring at his hands through narrowed, concerned eyes.

“Of course,” Merlin replied, looking away. “But I already told you. I don’t like to use it.”

“Magic?”

“Yeah,” Merlin sighed. It was true. “I don’t like to use my magic. Not using it makes me feel more… I don’t know. Human.”

Arthur didn’t respond; Merlin could tell that he had no idea what to say.

“It’ll heal soon, anyway,” he assured Arthur, turning to look at him again. “I don’t really know why. I believe it has something to do with the whole ‘immortal’ thing.”

Arthur didn’t look convinced. Even so, he sighed deeply; he knew Merlin well enough, including how stubborn he was.

“At least let me help you clean up. Then, I shall return to rest. Would that make you happy?”

“Indubitably so,” Merlin grinned through gritted teeth as he painfully pulled out the shards of glass in his skin one by one. A simple spell would expel them immediately. Still, he was not about to make it that easy for himself. “But, I’d much rather you just shut up and go back to sleep now.”

“Not happening. Now where’s your broom?”

“I’ll get it,” Merlin insisted, breathing in deeply and preparing himself to walk. He barely took two steps before swaying as black spots traveled across his vision. A moment later, he sank to his knees, his eyes spinning out of focus and his ears ringing beyond comprehension.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted, and suddenly, Merlin vaguely felt arms pulling him upright from beneath his own, much like metal hooks. “Goodness, were you struck by a cup or by a mace?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin whispered, struggling to focus and compose himself. He could dimly feel the pain begin to dissipate from his hands, and the gash on the back of his head stopped burning. The effect on his consciousness, however, was getting progressively worse. “I’m sorry, I-”

“You have got to stop apologizing for absolutely no reason, Merlin,” Arthur muttered, releasing him after hoisting him up onto his feet. He left a hand on his shoulder, however, seemingly afraid that Merlin would crumple back down onto the floor upon release.

Merlin could feel Arthur’s eyes scrutinizing the state he was in; his eyes darted back and forth from his head to his toes, looking more and more concerned as his investigation continued. Suddenly, his face contorted into a growing alarm.

“Merlin…” He whispered, frowning deeply. “I don’t remember you ever looking this thin. I mean, you were a tree branch before, but now…”

“What?” Merlin swallowed hard; he was aware of the bones that jutted from his skin. He was aware of how loosely his clothing hung from his skin. He was very much aware of his appearance and how little effort he had put into maintaining any healthy body composition over the past millennia and a half. Not once did he care about his well-being.

“And – goodness, I thought it was the cold at first but – you’re paler than a ghost. Which is certainly saying something, because you already look paler than a powdered court mistress.”

“I… lost a lot of blood, I guess? Arthur, it’s nothi-”

“Your eyes have sunken in. And… just look at the darkness below them. Have you slept at all, lately? You’re a standing corpse, Merlin!”

“You’re making me blush from all these compliments, Arthur.”

“No, no, I don’t mean it like that – _seriously_ , Merlin, what’s going on?”

“Can you not pry about it?” Merlin sighed, pressing his healed hands to his temples in frustration. “Look, I’m sorry Arthur, but I just got my best friend back after a impossibly long and cruel amount of time, and I’d rather we not dwell on my stupid issues right at this second. Please, Arthur. I’m fine. I promise you.”

Arthur’s judging eyes faltered at “best friend”. To be honest, Merlin did not know, nor did he care, if he considered him the same. “Best friend” did not even begin to cover how Merlin felt about him. He could not even begin to fathom a word that could describe exactly what he meant to him.

The concern did not leave Arthur’s face, but he nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” he said calmly, finally letting go of his bony shoulder. “I won’t inquire any further.”

“Thank you,” Merlin replied, smiling weakly. He let go of the counter and stood upright, refusing to sway though his knees felt weak and the pit of his stomach nauseous. “And, look, I’m already feeling better. See? It was nothing, just a glass. Got me good, it did. Right in the noggin’.”

“Er, ‘noggin’?” Arthur did not laugh; rather, he looked slightly confused. “I take it that’s another, uh, way of saying head these days?”

“Yeah,” Merlin chuckled, dragging his feet to the corner where a dusty old broom leaned against the side of the loud refrigerator. He fought his way past cobwebs and pulled it out. “I can take care of this, Arthur. I implore you to return to sleep.”

“And wake up to find your head ten feet away from your body after your latest ‘accident’?” Arthur scoffed, coolly leaning back against the counter and folding his arms into his chest. “Not a chance.”

“Arthur, I don’t want to have to resort to using my magic.”

“Is this going to become a recurring threat or something? Makes you wonder what other tricks you’ve pulled on me in the past – wait.”

“What?” Merlin swallowed as he saw another bout of shock rest into Arthur’s features. “Arthur?”

“You cheated at the tavern, too,” he gasped, throwing Merlin a dirty look “Didn’t you?”

It took a moment for Merlin to understand what he meant. Through the deepest and dustiest cracks in his memory, he vaguely recalled the gambling at the tavern the night before Camlann had been declared. Within moments, however, he recalled the… er, “tactics” he had employed in order to beat his enemy and secure his loot.

“Damn,” Merlin sighed light-heartedly, feeling immensely relieved. “You’d have thought being dead might damper your memory after a thousand and four hundred years.”

“I already told you,” Arthur muttered, rolling his eyes again. “To me, it feels like we were at the tavern a week ago. I just… I just don’t know why that is.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin insisted, gulping. This was territory he did not want Arthur to tread right now. Dangerous territory. He had to stop thinking about it. “Now, pull out the bin, would you?”

“Bin?” Arthur looked utterly confused again. Right. Merlin was the one who dealt with his trash. A thousand, four hundred and seventy-four years ago. He certainly wouldn’t have known what a bin was, even if they had existed with such a name back then.

“This is a bin,” Merlin pointed out, lethargically dragging his feet to the battered plastic receptacle on the side of the stove. “Where trash and what not goes. Every couple mornings, I bring it down to an even bigger waste bin outside the building. Then a lorry comes and takes the garbage away.”

“Mind explaining what a lorry is?”

“You remember those cars you saw while on the balcony earlier, right? A lorry is a much bigger and complicated version of a car. And, well, there are lorries specially made to carry big loads of trash and take them away.”

“Bin, car, lorry,” Arthur repeated to himself, looking disgruntled. “Why does this era have to be so complicated?”

“It’s not, really,” Merlin assured, sweeping the bloody shards of thick glass into a pile. “You’ll learn. It takes time, Arthur. But I’ll be there-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Arthur sighed exasperatedly, unfolding his arms and gripping onto the counter. The tendons on his hands visibly strained, and his knuckles turned white. Poor counter. “You’ll be there for me, I know.”

“Erm, yes,” Merlin muttered awkwardly, slightly abashed. Arthur didn’t sound as happy about it as he would’ve liked to hear. “Of course, whenever you don’t want me around, I’d be more than willing to get out of your way.”

“That won’t be happening,” Arthur stated matter-of-factly, kneeling down to help Merlin brush the glass into the waste bin. “There’s no one else I could ever dream of having by my side.”

Merlin felt his face burn red, and did not look up nor respond. He felt exponentially better, however.

“Of course,” Arthur continued in a warm, light-hearted tone. “It’s not like I have any other options, seeing as you’re literally the only person I’ve got. So, I’m stuck with you, whether you like it or not.”

“I appreciate how much you value my companionship,” Merlin chuckled, further relieved that the pain in his head was finally wearing away. “Truly, I am touched.”

“As you should be. But I still hate this clothing. I despise it. I truly loathe it. There are some things in life that I believe no man will ever get used to. And I’ve come to accept that jeans are one of those things,” by the end of his rant, Arthur did look very much like a destroyed man. Merlin tried to suppress a chuckle. He failed.

“Go to bed, Arthur,” Merlin insisted as they finished sweeping up the last bits of glass into the bin. “I’ll take care of the rest. You’ve got to get proper sleep.”

“You’re one to talk,” Arthur murmured, followed by a loud yawn. “I’ve been asleep for the past one thousand, four hundred and whatever years, apparently.”

“There’s a difference between being asleep and being dead.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered darkly, yawning again. “Promise me you’ll rest as soon as you are done? It wouldn’t do me any good in this world if you were to drop dead from exhaustion. I barely know how to turn on the tevelision.”

“It’s ‘television’,” Merlin chuckled, yawning despite himself. “And, don’t worry. Something tells me I’m not about to die from losing a few hours of sleep.”

“Nonetheless,” Arthur rose to his feet and folded his arms into his chest. “As your king – okay, former king – I order you to rest as soon as you’ve finished here.”

“Then I shall, sire. Now go to bed.”

With a sigh, Arthur lazily retreated back into the bedroom and shut the door quietly behind him.

As far as his emotions went, Merlin was utterly conflicted. Half of him was still reeling from the incident, but the other half was still bubbling with joy. Merlin had spoken more today than he had in at least half a century. He hadn’t spoken this whole-heartedly and happily for over a thousand, four hundred and seventy-four years. It was like the world had sudden breathed life back within him. Merlin had spent the past millennia and a half simply existing. Now, however, he was finally living once again.

Though he was scrubbing his own blood off the ceramic tiles with a soapy sponge, Merlin felt better than ever. His hair was matted down with dry blood, and he could feel it stick to the back of his neck. The rusty, metallic smell of it hadn’t dissipated from the air around his nose. But he was still content.

No, he wouldn’t think about the incident again. At least, not now. Right now, he was going to focus on getting that morbid looking splotch of blood off his stove. Then, he would focus on taking a shower and fixing the mess that is his hair. Then, he would lay down on his sofa and catch a few hours of rest, because Arthur asked him to do it, and Merlin would do anything for Arthur. Arthur Pendragon. Arthur, his best friend. Arthur, the other side of the coin. Arthur, the Once and Future King. His king, Arthur Pendragon.

_Arthur Pendragon is dead._

* * *

 

“… I’ll ask you once again, madam. What is your business here?”

“Boy, I don’ got the teensiest idea what you’re talkin’ ‘bout!”

“State your business.”

“I’m lookin’ fer Merlowe! I haven’t a qualm with ye, boy, so git out o’ my way!”

“Merlowe?”

Two people were bantering back and forth some distance away. Merlin didn’t know who or what it was, but the sound was grating and unpleasant. He just wanted some sleep. Was that too much to ask for?

“What are you-“ There was a slight whoosh followed by sharp slap and a shocked grunt of pain. “Ow! How dare you-”

“Git! Morlic, where are ya? Some loony’s answerin’ ya door! Are ya dead, boy? Did he kill ya?”

Suddenly, Merlin shot upright, blinking away the lethargy of sleep from his eyes. Shoot. Mrs. Marley. He hadn’t been able to get his monthly rent fee together in time last week; she was bound to reappear any day now.

Shoot. Arthur answered the door.

Arthur answered the door.

Tossing aside the blanket and quickly hopping off of the sofa, Merlin got to his feet. The irritated elderly woman had invited herself in, her ancient face caked with her usual excess of bright makeup and swinging her massive crocodile skin bag in one arm; Arthur stood by the door, looking utterly offended and a little… scared? He was rubbing his arm with an incredulous expression. Wait. Did Mrs. Marley, the seventy-something year old, slightly-though-more-than-slightly-off-her-rockers landlady just hit Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, with her purse?

Merlin didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry.

“Murdoc! Who’s this barmy son of a bitch supposed ta be, eh?”

“Ah, er…” Merlin didn’t know what to say. “That’s my… er, brother-in-law.”

“Never knew ye’ had a sister, boy,” the old woman chirped, smiling quite repulsively in the way overly painted, mostly toothless old ladies normally do. “How come she never come an’ visit?”

“She… lives in America?” Merlin swallowed, glancing for a moment at Arthur, who continued to stand in the doorway looking utterly lost beyond his mind. “She’s busy with work, couldn’t make the trip. Arthur here flew in a couple days ago… er, don’t mind him, he’s still a little jetlagged.”

“He don’t sound American ta’ me,” She dismissed, glaring at the confused blond man who hadn’t budged. She talked about him as though he had left the room. “Where’s this fool from? Talkin’ like my great-great-great granddad, he is,” she smacked her lips disapprovingly.

“He’s from…” Merlin struggled to clear his head. He was going to have to work on Arthur’s speech. He never imagined that the day would come for him to teach someone how to dumb down his linguistics. “Born and raised Knightsbridge. Rich as hell. Says he’s got some royal blood in him too, even. You know how it is with those posh folks.”

“Reckoned so,” she sneered, looking away from Arthur. “A bit dodgy. Don’t talk much, do he?” she turned and glared at Arthur again through her crooked spectacles. “Except fer when he be dealin’ with proper misses, apparn’tly. Lord, have mercy on the missus.”

“Uh… yeah,” Merlin swallowed awkwardly. Arthur was still gaping at the woman, wordless. “Anyway, about the money, er, I don’t have it all yet.”

“Martin,” she screeched, furiously waving a long-nailed finger in his direction. “Don’t ye’ dare start thinkin’ that jus’ because o’ yar pretty, inna’cent eyes tha’ ye can get away with livin’ here without payin’ me a pound!”

“Please, Ms. Marley,” Merlin innocently pouted at the woman, eyes wide and sparkling with his, er, charm. “I haven’t pulled together the cash yet, work’s been tough. Just another week, I promise. I’ll have it all, and then some.”

“Well… can’t be sayin’ no that face now, darling,” the old woman laughed like a dying cat as she placed her hand on Merlin’s arm a bit too sensually for comfort. He swallowed hard, feeling the red blossom on his cheeks. “Don’ ya worry about it fer another two weeks, Melvin. I’m in no rush.”

“…Thank you,” Merlin squirmed, trying to shake off her claws as nonchalantly as possible. “I appreciate it, Ms. Marley.”

“Have ya been eatin’ at all, boy?” She inquired, dropping his arms suddenly pinching Merlin’s cheeks, stretching his skin this way and that. “I’ll bake ye’ a loaf or two of my banana bread an’ bring it over to ya tonight, dearie. Ye best learn ta take care of ya’self better!”

“Um… I’m fine, Ms. Marley,” Merlin pulled away uncomfortably, refusing to look at Arthur, though he could hear a quiet snort coming from his general direction. Looking down, he led the old lady to the door. After thanking her again and nodding with mock gratitude at all her offers of sweets and stews to bring over, he shut the door. He didn’t want to turn around, especially because Arthur had just begun laughing at full volume

“Merlin!” Arthur couldn’t compose himself at all, smacking Merlin on the back in mock applaud. Merlin felt his entire face burn with the heat of a thousand suns. “You charmer! I had no idea you could sweet-talk the ladies so well! Did you pick that up over the centuries, friend?”

Merlin pressed his forehead to the door, his hand strangling the doorknob.

“At first I thought I hated the old crone,” Arthur continued, breathless as his laughter could not be stemmed. “But, goodness, Merlin, I think I’m going to like her! You two make a wonderful pair!”

“Shut up,” Merlin seethed, turning around and refusing to look at Arthur.

“Lighten up, Merlin,” Arthur insisted, finally calming down as he trailed Merlin to the kitchen. “I was only joking. But goodness, the look you gave her. For a second I found myself as breathless as she!”

“I said, _shut up_ ,” Merlin repeated through clenched teeth. He was tired, his head pounded furiously from the night before, and he had just been reminded about how broke he was at the moment. Great. Not to mention, he was going to have to call in sick for work the third day in a row, which was not helping his funds, whatsoever. He finally looked up, and stared Arthur straight in the face. “Make note of this for the future, Arthur. Do not. I repeat, do not, under any circumstance, open the door. For anyone.”

“Ease up, friend,” Arthur sighed, looking abashed. “You were deeply asleep and I did not want you to have to wake up.”

“…Oh,” Merlin instantly felt bad. Perhaps he sounded a bit too grumpy. “I apologize, Arthur. I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no, I understand completely,” Arthur responded, turning away to stare blankly and the refrigerator. “You don’t want me answering the door for obvious reasons. I get that, Merlin. No need to apologize.”

“Just give yourself a bit more time to adjust,” Merlin reassured, moving to place a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Once you get to know the, er, _culture_ of the people of today, you’ll be answering doors and telephones in no time.” There was actually no way in hell Merlin would be letting Arthur answer either of those. It’s the thought that counted, though.

“Teh-luh-phone?”

“This thing right here,” Merlin pointed out, pulling the telephone out of its receiver and holding it in front of Arthur’s face. “You press the buttons right here; there are certain numbers you push that connect you to certain other people who also have telephones. That’s called dialing numbers. When you dial the right number, the other person picks up wherever they may be, and you just talk.”

“Are you telling me I could be holding one of these… _tellyphones_ outside this tower, and you could be holding one right here, I could just… talk to you?”

“Essentially, yes,” Merlin responded, demonstrating how the phone is held to the ear. “The sound of the other person’s voice comes out from the top. That goes against your ear. By your mouth at the bottom is the microphone. It captures your voice and, er, it travels through to the other phone. Simple as that.”

“And none of this is magic? Whatsoever in anyway?”

“None at all,” Merlin insisted, smiling despite himself. “Though, when you think about it, I guess you could call it magic, in a way. It’s the magic of this era, the magic of this population. It’s called technology, and it encompasses all these contraptions and devices that the people from our time would’ve never imagined in their wildest dreams.”

“Incredible,” Arthur looked genuinely fascinated. Maybe, just maybe, teaching him wouldn’t be that difficult.

“Yeah,” Merlin agreed, chuckling. “Yeah, it is.”

No one spoke for the next few minutes; Arthur was busy scanning every inch of the telephone, his long fingers lightly sliding across each numbered button as he marveled at the miracle he was holding in his hand.

“So who was that dazzling mistress?” Arthur suddenly inquired, rubbing at the patch of reddened skin on his arm. “She seemed rather… unpleasant.”

“She owns this building,” Merlin began, retrieving the phone and placing it back in its receiver. “She’s the landlady. All the people who live here have to pay her dues every month for being able to stay here. That’s how rent works.”

“You don’t own this… er, home?”

“No, I can’t afford to own my own home,” Merlin admitted sheepishly, the emptiness of his wallet stinging him a little more than it should’ve.

“What?” Arthur looked at Merlin incredulously. “What have you been doing all these years? Nothing?” It took a moment for Arthur to recognize the offended expression on Merlin’s face. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean it like th-”

“No, not nothing,” Merlin muttered, rolling his eyes. “I’ve just been taking work that supplied enough for me to get by. I don’t need that much. Never did, and I still don’t. Well, now that you’re here, though-”

“What is your profession?”

“Currently?” Merlin felt embarrassed. To tell Arthur that, even after fifteen centuries, he works a lowly job as a busboy in a diner? When he had the ability to be the head professor of medical sciences at Oxford, or even the damn prime minister of the country? He felt his cheeks burn red. “I work at a restaurant. Er, a modern dining hall. Though, the one I work it is a lot more like a tavern.”

“Oh,” Arthur coughed awkwardly, looking away from Merlin. “Well… is your pay decent?”

“No, not really,” Merlin sighed. He should’ve become the prime minister. “But it’s been enough for me, anyway. I don’t mind it. Besides, it’s better than you’ve ever paid me.”

“Hey!” Arthur responded, sounding slightly offended. “Well, if you weren’t such a horrible servant, things would’ve been different.”

“I appreciate it, Arthur,” Merlin replied, gently laughing. “The years I worked for you were the best years of my life, anyway. Regardless of how horrific I was at my job. Thank you for keeping me around.”

“Alright, you weren’t that bad,” Arthur continued, averting his gaze. “You’ve saved my life and the kingdom itself more than I can count. I know that, now. That certainly makes up for it.”

“Hey. No one could polish your armor brighter than I, of course. Don’t you forget that.”

Arthur chuckled in response as he walked over to the sofa and sat himself down. Merlin looked to the clock; it was almost nine in the morning, and he was already three hours late for his shift. He’d ‘convince’ his boss that he had a valid reason for his absence later.

“Merlin,” Arthur inquired suddenly, turning his head. “Do all women dress like she did in this century?”

“No, don’t worry,” Merlin chuckled, remembering the bright peacock brooch that matched the variety of makeup product and rouge that covered the strange old woman’s face. “She’s a bit loony.”

“She certainly had an eye for you,” Arthur giggled. “Did you see how she was courting you? Those hands. For someone her age, she certainly seemed to know how to use them.”

“Shut up.”

“By the way,” Arthur continued, ignoring him. “Why were you talking like that?”

“Talking like what?”

“I don’t know how to describe it. I didn’t understand half of the two of you were saying, but you were talking so… differently. And goodness, her accent! What was that all about?”

“Um,” Merlin was unsure of how to explain. “This century has certainly toned down it’s, er, manner of speaking, I suppose. It’s a lot more laid back. Not nearly as eloquent as, well, what you’re used to. There are a lot of new expressions and phrases and words you have no clue about.”

“I realized that one on my own, thank you,” Arthur replied, sounding exasperated. “Do you always talk like that, now? I mean, aside from when you’re speaking to me.”

“Well, of course I do,” Merlin chuckled, running his hands through his hair. “I can’t go around speaking like Shakespeare, now can I?”

“You’ve lost me,” Arthur groaned. Merlin could see him sink lower into the sofa.

“Right,” Merlin muttered. “Shakespeare came a thousand years after your time. He was a famous writer. Wrote many plays and poems that the people of today adore. I met the man, myself, actually.” William was a nice enough man. A bit odd, really. A little too out-going, perhaps.

“I do enjoy fine plays,” Arthur remarked. “I should read some of his work, then.”

“I’ve got a copy of his sonnets in my room,” Merlin assured him. Reading was probably a wonderful way to get Arthur away from thinking about thoughts that should not be thought about. That is, if Arthur could even begin to comprehend today’s written language, which looked very, very, _very_ different than what he was used to. “I think you would enjoy his writing.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been able to relax and enjoy a little reading,” Arthur sighed, sounding nostalgic. Uh oh. “To be honest, Camelot’s library had been my favourite place to spend time in when I was growing up. It was all so much easier those days. Sir Geoffrey would find me something new to read every other day. I could hide in the corner of the chamber and read those dusty old tomes for hours before my father found me. Then… he would reprimand me for the rest of the night about how such trivial hobbies would not do me any good as prince.” He finished, sounding awfully bitter.

Merlin wasn’t sure how to respond. Uther was always a particularly touchy subject for both him and Arthur. This wasn’t the direction in which he wanted the conversation to go.

“Well, times are different now,” Merlin assured him light heartedly, walking over to the sofa and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Much different. I’ve got many books that I think you’d enjoy. Might be a bit tough to read, though. Written English is a hell of a lot different today.”

“Great,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “So my destiny has decided to make life as difficult as possible for me, I take it? The prophets must have genuinely despised me.”

“Was it ever truly easy to begin with?”

“I suppose not.”

“You’ll be fine,” Merlin assured him, trying to sound as warm as possible. “You’ve got me.”

“What a reassuring thought,” Arthur responded with a voice saturated in sarcasm.

“Or,” Merlin continued, rolling his eyes. “You know, I could just drop you off in the middle of town and see how far you go on your own. I’m sure you can do it. You don’t need me, of course.”

“Shut up,” Arthur laughed bitterly. “Anyway… Merlin?”

“What?”

“If I have been dead for as long as you say I’ve been,” Arthur began exasperatedly, getting to his feet. “Then that means I haven’t had a bath in over… what did you say? Fifteen centuries?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Merlin groaned. Now he had a new lesson to teach. How to successfully use a shower without either freezing yourself or boiling yourself. Or slipping and breaking your neck. “I’m going to warn you; the baths you’re used to are not at all close to what they’re like now. It’s not a big vat of fire-boiled water anymore.”

“So now bathing has become something of a dire quest?” Arthur exhaled angrily, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. “I can’t do this, Merlin. Take me back to the lake.”

“I’m not losing you again if that’s what you’re getting at,” Merlin rolled his eyes, tugging on Arthur’s arm and leading him to the bathroom. “It’s easy; the only hard part is turning the dial to the right temperature.”

“The dial?” Arthur muttered, looking utterly confused again. “Why would you need to turn a dial to bathe?”

“It’s how the water comes out,” Merlin explained, leading Arthur into the tiny bathroom and pulling aside the shower curtain. “This knobby thing right here – that’s the dial. You turn it left, the water gets cold. Turn it right, it gets hot.”

“That’s… something,” Arthur narrowed his eyes, looking back and forth between the showerhead, the dial, and the drain. “And where’s the water?”

“It comes out of this thing right here,” Merlin pointed to the showerhead. Little droplets of water leaked lazily from its rim. “It comes down like rain. Like a shower of rain. Hence, why some people also call them ‘showers’.”

To demonstrate, Merlin pulled the smaller knob beneath the temperature dial; the water spouted out of the showerhead to Arthur’s utter amazement. It took everything in Merlin’s power not to laugh.

“Now, put your hand under there,” Merlin directed, grabbing Arthur’s hand and placing it below the water. The lukewarm water splashed upon their skin. “Turning the dial changes the temperature,” he explained as he turned it. He watched Arthur carefully, as the fascinated man turned in his hand in amazement beneath the rapidly changing flow. Merlin grinned.

“This is actually quite amazing,” Arthur laughed in awe, looking at the brisk stream.

“And then, when you’re done, you just pulled this knob again,” Merlin directed as he demonstrated. Arthur frowned as the water flow came to a complete stop. “Sound easy enough?”

“I think I’ve got it,” Arthur nodded, eyes flipping back and forth between the shower’s components. “Left, cold. Right, warm. Knob pushed in, water on. Knob pulled out, water off.”

“Exactly,” Merlin nodded, happy that this lesson went a lot more smoothly than he expected. “That’s a bar of soap right there. I know, looks a bit different than the chunks of wax you remember. They smell a lot nicer. And in that bottle right there? Yeah, that’s basically soap for your hair. It’s called shampoo. Just give it a squeeze and it’ll pour out. Stings like fire in the eyes, though, so be careful.”

Arthur looked at him with eyebrows raised high enough to completely disappear beneath his fringe.

“So, yeah. You can get to it if you’d like. I’ll fetch some towels and leave them by the door. Are you good?”

“Yeah,” Arthur nodded assuredly, running his damp fingers over the shower curtain in quaint fascination.

“If you need anything else, just call me,” Merlin said as he wiped his hand on his shirt, turning to leave. “Don’t feel embarrassed to ask for help.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur muttered, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure I can manage it, Merlin. I’m the King of Camelot. I can use a bath.”

“I’m just saying!” Merlin held up his hands, laughing. “If you manage to boil your skin off, don’t come crying to me. I’m just going to laugh at you.”

Arthur shut the bathroom door in his face.

“Right then,” Merlin muttered, traveling to his room. “Towels.”

After the delivery of the towels, Merlin walked back into the living room, where the television was buzzing quietly in the background. It was the BBC news channel, and something big was flashing on the screen in urgent letters. Piquing his interesting, he turned up the volume and settled down onto the sofa, paying close attention to the shocked faces on the screen.

 _“…biggest casualty count in the area for decades. Details are yet to come on the investigation, but it suffices to say that the entire nation is shocked._ ”

Merlin suddenly felt very dizzy. He blinked several times, but a pain began to sear in the center of his skull, an electrifying feeling he recalled experiencing when he had first heard Arthur’s voice ring in his head.

He could see footage of covered bodies being pulled into multiple ambulances, with the police surrounding every corner of the shot. There were glimpses of people crying into each others’ arms, and many shocked reporters rushing to find out the scoop.

“ _For our viewers who have just tuned in, the nation is reeling after authorities have finally released more detailed insight into the mass murder and robbery at London’s Wesson Bank; reports indicate that over forty people, all either staff members or bank customers, were killed in the attack that officials have concluded occurred early yesterday morning. No suspects have been identified or caught, though officials are searching the vicinity and questioning witnesses and survivors alike on the-_ ”

Struggling to swallow, Merlin flipped to the next news station.

 _“…do not understand how this could have happened! There are reports swarming in that no video evidence has been captured. There’s nothing! The security cams were all dead! Just an emptied vault, but no other indication of a break-in in the first place. Blimey, it’s almost as though the criminals vanished into thin air! Now, Charlene, have you thought of how-_ ”

Another button pressed, and another news channel popped up on the screen. A man on screen was interviewing a very frightened looking young woman, convulsing into sobs as she spoke.

“ _-wasn’t any blood!_ ” She cried out to the microphone by her mouth. “ _Nothing! They barged in and people started d-dropping onto the ground like… like they’d been knocked out or somethin’, and I hid behind my desk and tried to call my mum and, and I just, I just…_ ” she couldn’t finish her statement, pressing her face into her hands as the reporter patted her on the back. Merlin shut off the television. The remote fell from his hands and tumbled onto the carpet below. He swallowed hard.

Something was so incredibly wrong about this already terrible situation. Merlin tried to wrap his head around it, but the pain seized every corner of his mind. In London, out of all areas! Banks here were _stacked_ with security. There was no plausible way to explain how this happened.

Except for one.

Merlin dashed to his bedroom and pulled out his laptop. Running back to the sofa, he yanked it open on his lap and impatiently pushed the power button. The thing took forever to load. This was even more unnerving.

When he was finally able to pull up a search engine, Merlin was met with a headline underneath the search bar in the news section. It read, “BREAKING NEWS: MASS MURDER IN LONDON’S WESSON BANK” Swallowing with difficulty, he typed in as many details as he could about what he gathered from the news. He had to find out, at the very least, how the victims were murdered. Only then could he come to the conclusion of whether or not this was an act of something that Merlin feared more than anything else.

An act of _sorcery._

For so long, Merlin wished that he’d never have to deal with those words in such context ever again. It had been over a hundred years since he had last heard of a crime in which sorcery might’ve been involved. As far as he was concerned, magic had been long lost in the untapped blood of oblivious generations. Sorcery was dead. No one cared about any of that anymore. He was supposed to be the only sorcerer left. Only him.

…He wasn’t about to fool himself into truly thinking that. The all too overwhelming truth was that it was not, in fact, magic that had disappeared. He was not about to bullshit himself into ever thinking that he _truly_ believed _all_ sorcery was gone forever. Merlin hadn’t lied about having not seen another sorcerer for centuries – that was true. But that was only because he had stopped looking. He hadn’t looked since the day Arthur had died.

Magic was dead to him. Magic was something that had taken his life and torn it apart. It was something he never asked for. The life he had, the life he never wanted. No one would ask for this life. It was cruel, it was merciless, and it was beyond his power to ever hope to control.

And, what was worse – what made no sense- was that Merlin truly blamed himself for having failed his own kind. He blamed himself for having done nothing as outlying kingdoms continued to persecute those with magic. The burning of witches, the torture of wizards. The hunting and killing of elves, of giants, of the Sidhe, of all his magical brethren. He blamed himself for the decline of sorcery that progressed centuries after it was finally allowed back into Camelot. Because he had done nothing to save it; he, the greatest sorcerer on earth, the unifier of his kind and those not of magic, the man who, by Arthur’s side, brought peace to Albion, did nothing.

He did nothing to save sorcery. And he blamed himself for having sat on the sidelines and watched sadly as it lost against the test of time. Merlin loathed himself for having not cared enough to do anything about it; he believed himself to be selfish, to be a disappointment, to be a _failure_. So, eventually, he stopped looking. Because even someone as masochistic and self-deprecating as he could not keep watching as history repeated itself over, and over, and over again, without so much as a finger lifted to stop this wretched cycle.

Sorcery had fallen very far from what it had once been. That much was true. It had been reduced to the point where it was considered myth, for all the people knew. But, no, it was not gone. Sorcery was not gone. Magic would certainly never be lost. Neither could ever truly disappear. It was just Merlin who had decided he would be better off simply _not caring_.

Unfortunately, no details other than what he had heard briefly on the news had been released yet, even on the internet. Merlin supposed it was still too early for anything substantial and official to be released. He’d have to document this incident for the rest of the day and others to come until he could figure out what the hell was going on, and why it felt like something was tearing his brain apart as soon as he thought about it.

Something was definitely wrong here.

“… What on _earth_ are you looking at?”

Someone tapped at his shoulder. Caught off guard, Merlin gasped; the laptop toppled onto the ground, slamming shut in the process as it hit the floor. He turned to face the sudden disturbance.

There stood Arthur with a towel tied around his waist and another being run through his hair. Damn. For a guy who’s been dead for fifteen centuries, Arthur still managed to make Merlin feel _incredibly_ physically inadequate. And, admittedly, a little flustered. Why the hell was he blushing?

“You startled me, you prat,” Merlin muttered sheepishly, turning to pick up his laptop from the ground. “It’s called a laptop.”

“Top of your lap,” Arthur smiled, leaning against the back of the sofa. “I get it. That is a clever name. What does that godforsaken glowing, er, thing even do?”

“It can do _everything_ ,” Merlin emphasized, grinning fondly at the contraption on his lap. He was quite fond of computers; the internet was an especially useful invention that the modern times came up with. Kudos to technology for coming up with this one. “Almost like a television, but better. You can watch things, search for any image you’d like, read articles and stories and the most recent news. You can communicate with people through messages.”

“Actual messages?”

“Yeah,” Merlin nodded. “Like writing letters, except the letters are on the screen, and you can type in the letters rather than write them. You see these buttons?” he gestured to the keyboard. “Look closely. They’re all letters of the alphabet. It’s a bit easier than using feather and ink. Plus, you do not have to wait for actual messengers to deliver them to others. You can send messages immediately. Others can receive them within seconds.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Arthur leaned in from behind Merlin and stared closely at the bright screen. Merlin rushed to close the browser. “On that little… thing? I don’t believe it! That tiny scrap of… whatever the hell it is made out of… doing all of that? It burns so bright! And, again, you’re telling me _none_ of this is powered by magic?”

“None whatsoever,” Merlin assured him, opening up a word document and key-smashing in nonsense letters to demonstrate. “See? Er, okay, those aren’t words. But I’ll teach you how to read and write the modern alphabet. This might all look a little… foreign to you.”

Arthur continued to gape at the screen as Merlin’s fingers swept through the random buttons. Each little letter forming on screen reflected in his widened eyes. He was utterly fascinated; he suddenly looked like an awestruck child, the way the corners of his lips curled upward into a small smile. Merlin couldn’t help but smile as well.

“There’s a lot in this new age that will astound you,” Merlin continued, shutting the laptop and putting it aside. “A lot that will utterly bewilder you. The things the modern people have come up with… You wouldn’t believe.”

“I already can’t believe the vast majority of what I’ve seen these past couple days,” Arthur admitted, heading for the bedroom. “I still can’t believe this room. These things. The tevelision, the telly-phone, the shower, the kitchen, these blasted clothes. It’s all unreal. Completely unreal.”

“It’s _television_ ,” Merlin corrected again, grinning slyly. “And, I know it must be hard for you to comprehend. I can’t imagine what it must be like for you right now. But it’ll get easier eventually.”

“I hope so,” Arthur sighed, pushing open the door. “Or it’s back to the lake for me.”

The door shut behind him. At those words last words, Merlin felt uneasy.

There had to be a connection. Arthur was suddenly alive, inexplicably back from the dead. Kilgharrah had told him; Arthur would rise again when Albion needed him the most. A sudden unexplainable incident strikes London. A massive death toll. Indescribable circumstances. Completely and utterly out of the blue. Was it all one big, unfortunate coincidence?

Or was Albion’s peace really threatened once again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dunno about you, but I think I'm gonna like Mrs. Marley. 'u'
> 
> Sorry for the delay in updating! I've been busy, but I'm on break from school now and I'll hopefully be able to write a bunch these next few days. New update sometime next week!
> 
> Thanks again to my best buddy Jill for beta'ing this chapter!


	6. A Dream Come True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destiny works in mystery ways. But when your destiny is tied to that of Merlin and Arthur's, you're screwed.
> 
> Such is the unfortunate truth for a young boy whose dreams are just a little too strange to simply be dreams.

It had been a few nights since Gal witnessed an incredibly bizarre dream about a hand sticking out of a lake. Or was it an ocean? Maybe a river? Was it even a hand? It might’ve been a foot.

No, it had to be a hand, thought the young lad as he walked to school that chilly morning, munching down the last bite of his buttered toast. It had to be a hand, ‘cos feet can’t hold swords in their toes. Unless you were one of those gifted folks on Britain’s Got Talent, or something.

Yeah, it was definitely a hand, and it was gripping a shiny sword as it rose out of the surface of whatever that body of water was. Probably a lake, judging by the grassy shores that he could dimly pick out behind the fog. A small lake, with a tiny isle and a creepy looking tower smack in the middle. Something out of a cliché horror film, for sure.

There was something… strange about the dream, however. Strange, in that it was much more vivid that any other dream this sixteen year old kid has ever had. Strange, in that this was not the first time he has dreamt of this lake. Though, each and every time he had, there was no hand. Just lake. The very same lake with the very same misty haze floating over it like a lingering ghost.

Gal was a relatively normal boy. He grew up in a middle-class family, with two loving parents and a pet greyhound named Bors whom he had grown to love in the absence of having no other siblings. He was an excellent student, getting the highest grades in all his classes and still having the time to co-captain his school’s tennis team. With his neatly brushed brown hair and expensive pair of thinly rimmed glasses, this boy was certainly poised for a bright future full of promise and success. His mother, Elaine, wanted him to become a dentist. His father, Lance, _was_ a dentist. It made sense.

Yes, this boy had his future planned out for him. But it was a future he would never once in his entire sixteen years of life imagine having in store.

You see, Gal did not know that he was far from normal. Very far from it, indeed. Gal, whose real name was Galahad, but who had also opted for a shortened, relatively more normal sounding nickname (forever cursing his parents for having given him the “most stupid sounding” name on earth), was more than what met the eye.

This boy was a seer. A powerful one, whose lineage would lead him to the most powerful druids of the past. The same druids who, long ago, were hunted by the knights of Camelot under the rule of Uther Pendragon. As fate would have it, his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-many-more-greats-that-shall-not-be-written-for-the-sake-of-time-consumption grandfather was the druid seer Lochru, the very same seer who had grabbed Merlin’s hand within the dark and dreary cave by the annihilated village near Queen Annis’s lands. The same seer, who, in his dying breath, had shown Merlin of Arthur’s demise at Mordred’s sword.

As fate would also have it, this young boy inherited the skill of his ancestors, a skill that had eluded the majority of those of his lineage. What Gal did not know was that he was poised to signal the return of Albion’s Great Unifier. It was his voice that would be heard in the minds of those who were destined to partake in the cataclysmic events to come, announcing that the saviour has returned.

If only he’d realize what he was dreaming about. Only then could the prophecy be announced and set in motion once again.

It seemed, however, that Gal was not ready to do that just yet, as he was too busy cramming in last minute thoughts about the algebra exam he had to take that morning. But it was hard to focus on formulas when all he could think about was that something, somewhere, was back, and someone, somewhere, had to know about it. But what was back? Why did that matter?

With a heavy mind full of indecision and unanswered questions, he had finally settled into his seat. This was the first time he had ever forgotten to wave a quick hello to his friends across the classroom, the first time he had forgotten to tell his teacher that her hair looked particularly lovely that day, and the first time he had forgotten what his own name was.

He was beginning to sweat as his teacher came around, passing out the exams to each and every student in this oven of a classroom. Gal’s forehead was damp and his eyes burned. His heart was beating faster, and faster, and faster. He couldn’t read the numbers on his paper. There was nothing in front of him other than a blur of colors and shapes he could not even begin to identify.

Only ten minutes into his first class without a single question answered on his test, Gal was just about ready to fall out of his chair. He had never felt like this before. All he knew was that he had to tell someone. He had to tell someone that someone was back and something was going to happen.

But who were those someones? And what was that something?

Now, his teacher was looking at him funny. Everyone was looking at him funny. His breathing was uneven and his seat rattled below his body. But Gal couldn’t see any of these people staring at him with the utmost confusion.

All he could see was a lake, a lake where a drenched man in full armor was being pulled out by another similarly drenched man, though much lankier and reasonably dressed. Who the hell were these people, and what the hell were they doing in this kind of weather?

Gal’s brain was pounding in his head. His heart was close to ripping out of his chest and making a run for it. He had pushed his pens and his exam off of his desk as he gripped to its sides, heaving with an agony that threatened to overcome him. The teacher had already hopped out from behind her desk, making her way to her star student who looked like he was having an aneurysm. Had she made this test a little _too_ difficult?

But Gal was unaware of anything outside of his mind. He was barely aware of what he was seeing. These faces were completely unfamiliar. And it did not help that, all of a sudden, a rush of images flashed before his mind, of chaos and destruction and doom that he could not even begin to fathom.

He had to speak. He had to say something. There was something he had to announce to the world. Gal could feel it in the pit of his stomach, from the back of his throat, from the corners of his quivering mouth. He had to say something. There was something to be said.

“ _HE HAS RETURNED_ ,” Gal suddenly shouted, his voice otherworldly and piercing through the vicinity of the small and dreadfully silent classroom. “ _ARTHUR PENDRAGON HAS RETURNED. THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING HAS RISEN, ONCE AGAIN._ ”

No one said anything. No one did anything. They girls and boys around him simply stared, wordless, their mouths gaping. Almost everyone’s expression consisted of a mixture of confusion, bewilderment, and plain-old “what the hell?”

Galahad blinked. He had no idea as to what had just escaped his lips. There was no meaning he could derive from anything he had just said. In fact, he could not even remember uttering it in the first place.

A moment later, he toppled out of his chair, finding relief from the burning heat against the cold floor beneath him. His glasses had fallen from his face and landed several feet from his head, cracked through each lens.

“ _Albion… will fall…_ ” he continued in a weak yet ethereal whisper without a clue as to who or what ‘Albion’ was. But he did not have enough time to ponder that. That is because a short moment later, he finally passed out.

He had finally passed out, not knowing that his words had rung through the ears of many who had been waiting to hear them for a very, _very_ long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another mini-chapter introducing another character who, unlike our unfortunate friend Samuel Sutton, will actually be back later on in the story as a relatively important figure. There will be another regular-sized update on Saturday, hopefully.
> 
> It'll all come together soon enough. I promise.
> 
> You'll like this kid. He's a cutie. And his name was intentionally chosen.


	7. Dwelling On The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he's got another mouth to feed, Merlin cannot afford to neglect work any longer. However, leaving Arthur home alone with his unstable thoughts proves to be quite the dilemma.
> 
> Arthur Pendragon may be alive, but he isn't all that well.

The following morning, Merlin resolved to go to work. He was desperately running out of the little cash he had left. At this rate, he wasn’t going to get a car for another decade; a frozen, rusty bicycle could only do so much for two grown men, one of whom did not even know what a bicycle was. He’d be lucky if he was not thrown out of his flat by the end of the month; though, he wasn’t too worried about that. Mrs. Marley had a soft spot for him. Merlin was good at charming the old crone. No one could refuse those eyes.

Except for his boss. His boss could refuse those eyes. Mr. William O’ Connelly, commonly referred to as Bob by his friends and family, was an irritable middle-aged man with a limited vocabulary; eighty percent of which consisted of crude and offensive language. He was in a perpetual state of frustration, complaining about literally every little thing in life; the day was too bright, the night was too dark. The sun was too hot, the snow was too old, and water was far, far too wet. His beer belly was his most prominent feature besides the chubby face that was almost always a shiny tomato red. And yet, when a customer was nearby, his entire composure would change. To the eyes of the town, he was the jovial man who owned everyone’s favourite hometown eatery. His fat jowls quivered with raucous laughter as he conversed with his patrons. His vile yellow teeth made up his repulsively fake smile as he swept back his greasy, thinning gray hair with chubby fingers.

Merlin loathed the man; he was one of the worst employers he had ever had the misfortune of working under; and he had worked under a _hell_ of a lot through the past millennia. But, Merlin dealt with it with grace. Okay, well, he wasn’t all too honorable himself. He’d be lying if he said he never pulled any tricks on the man with his magic. Pulling the man’s pants down with a flick of his finger in front of his customers on a busy day would sometimes satisfy Merlin after any particularly rude and unfair reprimand was received. And, from this terrible man, Merlin received a lot of particularly rude and unfair reprimand.

Besides, he had gotten along with a few of his coworkers. He wouldn’t admit them as being his friends, though they were precisely that. See, Merlin hadn’t called anyone his “friend” in over a thousand years. But he had several “acquaintances”, as he preferred to call them, every now and then that he could uphold a decent amount of conversation with. His personality had become so stale and reserved over the years that it was hard for anyone to really enjoy his company; but when one got to know Merlin, he was somewhat more like his old self. Unfortunately, Merlin never stuck around long enough for many to see that side of him.

Eventually, everyone Merlin got to know and even remotely begin to open up to would get old, and subsequently die. He knew that. They’d notice that, as their hair grew grayer and their voices thinned, his would not do the same. While his skin remained clear and free of the lines and folds of age, they would begin to question the reason behind it. But before anyone could ask Merlin why that could even be, he’d be long gone. As though Merlin, the young man they thought they once knew, had never even existed in the first place.

It was a horrible way of life. But it was what he had to do to get by.

“Now Arthur,” Merlin began as he barged into what was once his own room but was now, as far as he was concerned, Arthur’s ‘chambers’. The man hidden beneath the blankets groaned in response at the sudden disturbance. It was not even light out yet. “I’ve got to go back to work today. That means I must lay down a few rules.”

“That’s no way to speak to your king,” Arthur’s muffled and annoyed voice rose from underneath the sheets, his voice thick with sleep. “I make the rules here.”

“This is my house. My rules.”

“Just tell me what you want to say,” Arthur yawned, pulling the covers completely over his head like a child.

“It’s a Sunday, so my shift is short,” Merlin began, pulling his uniform out of his drawers. Black shirt, black trousers, white apron. Hearing snoring from under the mess of blankets, Merlin rolled his eyes and flicked his fingers. The blankets were suddenly lifted off of Arthur and thrown onto the ground, much to the sleepy man’s annoyance.

“Hey!”

“As I was saying,” Merlin continued, grinning to himself. “I’m going to be back by midday. While I’m gone, I need you to stay put. I’ll turn on the television for you, and I’ll fix you some meat and bread and leave it out before I leave. That should be enough until I’m back. If the telephone rings, don’t answer it. If someone knocks on the door, don’t answer that, either.”

“So let me get this straight,” Arthur started, swaying upright. “I’m a prisoner?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Merlin chuckled, moving to the door. “It is only temporary until you can stand on your own two feet. You’ve been alive for all of three days now, Arthur.”

“What am I supposed to do until you’re back?” Arthur whined bitterly, getting to his feet. “It’s not as though I’ve got any royal duties to attend to anymore. I’m no longer a king.”

“Camelot might be gone,” Merlin started thoughtfully, placing a comforting hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “But you’re still here. And that does not change the fact that you were its king. You will always be a king. The best king who has ever lived.”

Arthur sighed as he walked out of the bedroom. Merlin stared at the dejected and slumped figure sadly.

“Just… watch television while I’m gone, or something,” Merlin suggested as he closed the bedroom door and rushed to change, struggling to tie the back of his apron. “That ought to be a little better than sifting through stacks of parchment for hours on end.”

“I barely understand what’s going on,” Merlin heard Arthur muttered from beyond the door. “It all looks so… stupid.”

“Well, you’re right about that one,” he agreed as he dashed out of the room and hurried to prepare some food. “Just keep flipping through the channels. I’m sure something will catch your interest. At least, the pretty pictures on screen might.”

Merlin had parental-blocked every news channel he could think of. He did not want Arthur to know anything about the incident in London. At least, not until he knew what exactly was going on, himself. There had been little else offered by the newscasters since he had first ran into to the shocking news the day before; which was, without a doubt, strange. It had hardly ever taken this long for official details to be released. This made Merlin more nervous than ever.

“You’re speaking to me a though I am a child,” Arthur remarked, clearly peeved.

“I’m just trying to help,” Merlin replied innocently. “Alright, I’ve left enough food to get you through the morning. I’m sorry that it’s not much.”

“It’s all right,” Arthur responded, turning his head to peer at the unappetizing plate of deli meat and bread Merlin was preparing on a tarnished old tray. “The food in this century tastes awfully… I don’t know how to describe it. It doesn’t taste genuine.”

“That’s because most of it isn’t,” Merlin said, smirking. “You’re catching on rather quickly. Much of this era glorifies the synthetic. It’s unfortunate, but efficient, I suppose.”

“Well,” Arthur furrowed his brows, crestfallen. “That’s… definitely something I wanted to hear.”

“Sorry,” Merlin mumbled. He wasn’t helping. Damn. “Anyway, I’m going to be late. You can go back to sleep if you’d like. That’s one way to pass the time. In fact, I’d rather you do just that for as long as possible.”

“I’ve slept through hundreds of years,” Arthur rolled his eyes, turning to face the television again. “I think I’ve passed enough time doing that particular task.”

“You were _dead_ ,” Merlin responded bitterly. Arthur had not simply fallen asleep. He had died in Merlin’s arms. There was a _big_ difference. “Stop trying to make it any less of what it actually was.”

“But it didn’t _feel_ dead!”

“How do you know what dead is supposed to feel like?” Merlin shouted back, forgetting that composure was the key. “Maybe death feels like sleep! Maybe! Who gives a damn? It’s still death! You were dead!”

Arthur didn’t respond. Silence fell between the two men for what felt like a century. Merlin was immediately struck with guilt again, fearing whatever expression might have been on the face turned away from him.

“A-anyways,” Merlin began again, finally moving his feet and quickly grabbing his jacket as he headed for the door. “Don’t forget what I told you not to do while I’m gone. I’ll be back soon.”

Without looking at Arthur for even the slightest of a moment, Merlin was out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

For all he knew, Merlin’s bicycle was probably a block of ice buried underneath a thick blanket of snow, still stuck in the fields of Avalon. He cursed at himself for not retrieving it sooner. Walking in the bitter cold – no, jogging while the icy air constricted each valve that ran through his chest – was not very fun. By the time he had wrenched his way into the restaurant, accompanied by a gust of cold wind and several flakes of snow landing upon the black and white tiles of the floor, his boss stood in front of him, fuming with all his heaving, fat glory.

“You’re late,” he grunted in the way that pigs typically do.

“But my shift hasn’t even started yet,” Merlin insisted breathlessly, his body struggling to adapt to the sudden change of warm atmosphere. He was being honest; it was only 6:51 AM, and his shift wasn’t supposed to start until seven.

“You cheeky bastard, didn’t anyone ever teach you not to talk back to your superiors?” The uncultured swine responded, clearly brassed off. “Your mum never taught you any manners, I see.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin apologized through his teeth, taking off his coat and heading toward the kitchen. “Won’t happen again.”

“Especially for a bastard who’s taken three days off!” the repulsive man uttered. “You didn’t call in tellin’ me why. So let’s hear an explanation.”

Merlin’s coworkers pretended to be busy in their own conversations to one another, but he did not buy it for a second. They were all expecting a reason as to why Merlin, that odd young man who rarely spoke and who had never missed a single day of work, suddenly missed three in a row.

“Erm…” This would’ve been exponentially easier if his coworkers weren’t nosing in at the scene. With a twist of his fingers, Mr. O’Connelly would’ve suddenly realized he had an important call to get to, and would’ve inexplicably forgotten why he was standing in front of Merlin with his arms folded into his heavy chest. There were too many onlookers. He sighed. “My grandmother’s been sick. Deathly sick. I’m the only one she’s got.”

Merlin was quite good when it came to acting. His sincere expression could sway an entire country if he needed it to. With the hurt expression he was feigning magnificently, even the most revolting of men could not spot falsehood.

“Get to work,” his boss finally grunted begrudgingly, heading back to his dingy office in the back. Merlin sighed a breath of relief. Well, that worked.

“Oi, gramma’s boy,” A light-hearted and boyish voice called from behind the counter. “It’s been a bit empty ‘round here without those ears taking up the entire goddamn space.”

Simon was a loud young man fresh out of secondary school. He’d been working here since he was fourteen, and was also the nephew of a certain William O’Connelly. He was nice enough, a good kid to talk to when even Merlin could not stand working the most menial hours of downtime without at least uttering a word or two. Simon did most of the talking, though. Merlin just listened. He was a hopeful kid with flaming red hair and enough freckles to start his own brand of camouflage. It was clear he was something of a funny man with the company he kept, and seemed to be in a state of perpetual optimism. Merlin considered him another one of his few “acquaintances”. And this boy, this incredibly peculiar boy, had the uncanny ability of never being fooled by any of Merlin’s lies. Merlin could not pinpoint why. It was more than obvious that Simon thought there was a little more to him than what he let on. He was far from right each time he guessed, however.

“What’s the real story, eh?” he whispered with a smile as Merlin hung up his jacket. “That was a nice one, though. Pretty ace for somethin’ off the top of your head.”

“There is no real story,” Merlin murmured quietly, helping the gingery boy dry the dishes in preparation for the breakfast rush. “I’ve been a bit sick, is all.”

“Now you’re just taking the piss,” Simon responded, laughing. “What, did you have a secretive mission to conduct in Ukraine or somethin’? Any bombs to defuse?”

“Why do you always think I’m some kind of secret agent or something?” Merlin chuckled, stacking up the dry cups. “I’m as boring as they come.”

“’Boring’ my arse,” he insisted, his stack of cups looking incredibly disheveled next to Merlin’s. “That name you’ve got going for you. ‘Merlin Emmers’. It’s not foolin’ me, that’s for sure.”

“You’re certifiable,” Merlin joked nervously. He always felt somewhat uneasy around the unusually perceptive boy, but never thought anything of it. Simon was a good lad; like previously mentioned, he was talkative. His spirits were high, he flirted with almost every single young woman who entered the eatery, and was incredibly aware of his good looks and his pleasant personality. Even so, Simon also took pride in his work ethic; during his breaks. Merlin found him studying furiously on his university work. His job was pretty lousy, but he worked it proudly, and was very much what Merlin would consider a star employee. Simon reminded him a lot of another person he once knew; a womanizing, tavern-hopping rogue who had saved his and Arthur’s lives on many an occasion, and had risen to become a proud knight and a cherished subject of his king. In Simon, Merlin subconsciously found much of this close friend.

“If you must know,” Merlin sighed, moving onto the dishes. “I had an old friend drop by from my days at uni.”

“An old friend, huh?” Simon snickered, narrowing his eyes. “Blimey, who’s the lucky lady?”

“What?” Merlin rolled his eyes, elbowing him in the side. “Not a lady, he’s-”

“Oh,” Simon coughed awkwardly for a moment, turning bright red. “Sorry mate, didn’t know you were… Well I mean I always kinda thought you were but then I thought you might not be but I also ventured to guess that you probably were and I-”

“…What?” Merlin looked at Simon, stupefied and feeling heat rush to his cheeks. “You think I’m _gay_?”

“…You’re not?” Simon laughed nervously, his face completely crimson at this point. “Are you sure? Because, man, if you are that’s totally okay, don’t worry-”

“Simon.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway,” Merlin continued awkwardly, trying to dispel unwanted warmth that filled his own face as well. “He’s an old friend who’s going through a difficult time. I’m letting him stay over my place for a bit, at least until he gets back on his feet. That’s all. I promise.”

“Oh,” Though suspicion did not wane from his eyes, Simon did not object to his words, but his face turned a shade so incredibly scarlet that it could become its own color on the spectrum. This was, all together, turning out to be a really uncomfortable conversation. For both.

“Yeah,” Merlin swallowed hard. “That’s that.”

“So… he must be one of your mates from the secret services?” Simon joked, trying to look relatively calmer as he moved onto polishing the silverware. “A partner-in-crime, or something?”

“Something like that,” Merlin responded, smiling despite himself. “We’ve been through… quite a lot together.”

“One day you ought to tell me your stories,” the freckled young man insisted light-heartedly, though it was clear a note of seriousness was intended. “No one knows a damn thing about you, Merlin. You’ve been here for a good couple a years too. Damn, I don’t even got a clue how old you are.”

“Well that’s one thing I can tell you,” Merlin chuckled, lying through his teeth. “I’m twenty-seven. Give or take a couple months, maybe.”

Well, he was actually being half honest. The last birthday he remembered ever celebrating was his twenty-seventh, and that was in the halls of Camelot, though the rest of the details of the event, including the precise month and day, had long escaped his memory. That was celebrated only a few months before Camlann. Physically, he was twenty-seven. In reality, he was a thousand, five hundred, and one.

“You’re not pulling my leg?”

“Why would I lie about my age?”

“Dunno, Merlin,” Simon chuckled, placing the last few pieces of silverware back in the rack. “Why don’t you tell me, eh?”

“You’re something,” Merlin sighed, patting his friend – okay, ‘acquaintance’- on the back. “I’ll give you that.”

“Get to work boys,” A gruff and everlastingly dissatisfied voice called from a distance away by the door in the back. Mr. O’Connelly stared them down with a bulging, critical eye. With a nudge of good luck to Merlin on the shoulder, Simon walked off to tend to the early birds who rushed in for breakfast. Sighing, Merlin followed, gathering up various bottles of different shades and sizes to distribute to each table. The greatest sorcerer who has ever lived, reduced to a bus boy at a goddamn bar and grill. Yeah. Merlin knew very well how many things looked wrong with this particular picture.

Wait a second.

Did _all_ his coworkers think he was gay?

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Merlin had clambered through the door of his flat, nearly frozen and nipped pink at the nose by the icy winds, his energy was completely spent. The breakfast rush, for a Sunday morning, was a lot busier than he had expected. That, coupled with his staunch refusal to use magic whenever he could, did not help his situation.

“Merlin!” Came Arthur’s voice from the balcony, where the sliding glass door was lodged wide open with snowflakes flowing in. Bitter gusts of cold wind surged in as well, rendering the efforts of the lousy heater of the flat useless. Dammit, Arthur. “You’re back!”

“I told you I’d be back soon,” Merlin sighed, throwing off his jacket. “Why on earth are you sitting out there in this kind of weather?”

“It’s not that bad,” Arthur responded boldly, though this did not mask the shivers that shook his voice.

“Please tell me you’re at least wearing one of the pullovers I bought you,” Merlin groaned; he did not want to have to deal with Arthur dying from the common cold, of all things. “Something with sleeves?”

“Yes, yes,” Arthur shouted back exasperatedly. Merlin could almost hear the roll his eyes. “You’re treating me like a child again.”

“That’s because you’re acting a little bit like one,” he joked, making his way to the balcony, where Arthur sat on a rickety lawn chair, peering out into the street below. He looked calm and relaxed, but his features looked tired. His eyes did not twinkle the way they often did. They looked melancholy. It was as though an old, exhausted man was dwelling within his young body. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, why?”

“Nothing. Can you at least come inside? Y’know, where you won’t freeze to death and make me go through all of this again.”

“Fine,” Arthur sighed, heaving to his feet and turning to re-enter the room. Merlin followed, staring at his ever-so-slightly hunched shoulders sheathed beneath the dark blue fabric. Merlin sighed heavily. Arthur was clearly unhappy. He had every reason to be.

“So…” Merlin began cautiously, afraid of seeing the other man’s expression. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“Tevelision,” Arthur responded bleakly, flopping down on the sofa with his hands behind his head. Merlin did not bother to correct him this time. “A lot of it. Though, I wasn’t really watching it. I mostly just… observed and tried to make sense of it all. I didn’t get far.”

“Like I said, most of it is stupid, anyway,” Merlin assured him, pulling off his apron after struggling with the knot for a good two minutes. “Did you do anything else?”

“I sat outside for some time,” Arthur responded, his expression unreadable. “I just… lost my train of thought for a while, I think. And then you came home.”

“Oh,” Merlin responded nervously, walking toward the kitchen to wash Arthur’s plates. “Did the telephone ring? Anyone at the door?”

“No, neither.”

“Good.”

Silence filled the room, aside from the clatter of cheap plates that bustled by the sink. Merlin was desperately worried about Arthur. Leaving him alone for even a few hours did not seem like a good idea; leaving him alone with his thoughts was a stupid mistake. But what on earth could Merlin do to make him happy? His kingdom, his friends, his family… they were long, long, long, long, long, long, _long_ gone. Merlin, himself, was literally the only part of Arthur’s life that still existed, today. And, evidently, he wasn’t much.

And then, Merlin’s memory trailed back to his conversation with Simon at work. He chuckled despite himself, though it was dark and very much humourless. Yeah, Arthur was quite the “lucky lady”.

The year 2013 was certainly not bleak. Nor was it boring in the slightest. There had to be something in this century that would amuse Arthur, or, at the very least, lighten his spirits and take his mind off that which cannot be thought of. Staying in the apartment was not helping; the dreary space had very little to offer other than the “tevelision” with which Arthur seemed to be somewhat fascinated. Had his livelihood not been dead for over a thousand years, Merlin was sure that Arthur would’ve found more joy in the household items that he kept in his humble abode. Like a child introduced to a set of bright and shiny new toys.

In Arthur’s mind, the last time he had seen Gwen must’ve felt like barely a week prior. And only a couple days ago, the man learned that his wife has been dead for the past fifteen centuries. To an extent, Merlin felt as though he could relate. The person he had cared for the most his entire life, the closest soul to his heart, the other side of the coin, his best friend and more-

This was about Arthur, and Arthur’s pain. Not Merlin’s.

“The weather is supposed to be significantly better tomorrow,” Merlin suddenly broke the silence after tucking away the last dried plate in his cupboard. “I was thinking… Maybe you’d like to go with me to the market?”

“Food shopping?” Arthur turned his head suddenly, peering at Merlin with a surprised expression.

“Yes,” Merlin nodded, grinning. “I understand if you’d rather not, seeing as that isn’t really a task someone like yourself would normally do, but I thought I’d-”

“Of course I will!” Arthur responded, a little too giddily. Merlin was momentarily amazed. This was a very un-Arthur kind of thing to see.

“Really? King Arthur Pendragon, out to purchase food amongst the simple townsfolk?”

“Are you implying that I’m shallow?” Arthur snapped back, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m only kidding, Arthur,” Merlin insisted, laughing warmly. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a king more devoted to his people than you. And, believe me. I’ve seen a lot of kings. A lot. Of kings.”

Merlin caught a glimpse of a warm smile lift the corners of Arthur’s mouth before he turned away again. Progress. Good.

“What do I wear?” The man on the couch suddenly inquired, looking up again at Merlin as though a dire, life-or-death decision had to be made at once. “I shall not make a fool out of myself amongst the people.”

“What you’re wearing right now is fine,” Merlin assured him, much to Arthur’s chagrin. “Mind you, that’s high fashion of top-name brands that you’re sporting.”

“You’re talking all strange again,” Arthur complained, that incredulous look back in his visage. Merlin chuckled.

“Sorry,” He wasn’t used to speaking like he had walked straight out of a Renaissance Fair anymore. “Try to understand, I’ve been involuntarily modernized throughout the ages. Not my fault. I swear.”

“I suppose I ought to catch on eventually,” Arthur sighed, getting to his feet and stretching. “At least until I wake up from this unpleasant dream, back in my bedchambers at Camelot. Where everything makes sense and there are no talking boxes spewing utter nonsense and displaying people dressed like court jesters.”

“Believe me, I wish it were a dream as well,” Merlin responded apologetically, feeling his heart sink several inches into his chest. “You do not know what I’d give to see the kingdom again. You truly do not know how lucky you are to have it fresh within your memory.”

Dammit, Merlin. You did it again. He could see the apple of Arthur’s throat bob slightly as he swallowed, visibly saddened and at a loss for words.

“Damn,” he began awkwardly, biting his lip. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-”

“Merlin,” Arthur began slowly, staring directly at him with earnest blue eyes. “I made an oath to you that I’d help you remember all you wish to recall. I do not go back on my word.”

“I know,” Merlin sighed, sitting down upon one of the rickety chairs by the sad excuse for a dinner table. “Thank you.”

“We built Camelot together, remember?” Arthur said fondly, a gentle white smile forming upon his lips as he grasped Merlin’s shoulder tightly. “Camelot is a part of me, as it is a part of you. It’s a fixture that cannot be moved.”

Merlin swallowed hard, recalling, though very faintly, similar words spoken by the spirit of his own father in the Crystal Caves so incredibly long ago.

“Like I told you, I know now,” Arthur continued, taking the seat opposite Merlin. “I know how much you’ve done for Camelot. How much you’ve given up for it. How incredibly important a part of your life it must’ve been for you to do so much to keep it standing, despite everything and everyone. I understand now.”

Merlin would have given everything in the world for Arthur to stop talking. It was reopening wounds that had been poorly stitched to begin with.

“But you’re wrong, you know,” Arthur continued, his voice suddenly solemn and barely louder than a whisper. “I am not lucky to remember. I’d like to think it would be rather easier to cope when you’ve got little memory of what you’ve left behind.”

“Arthur, I-”

“But it is all there,” Arthur continued, his tone distressingly empty and his eyes staring out toward nothing. “It’s all there. Everything. Vivid as though it was… only days… ago...”

“Arthur,” Merlin stared at Arthur, a sudden concern flooding through him. “Hey, Arthur?”

There was no response. Arthur just kept… staring. His face was blank. Completely emotionless. His entire body, stoic as a statue. It was as though he wasn’t even breathing.

“Arthur!” Merlin jumped out of his chair and moved to the figure that sat, motionless, on the chair. He knelt in front of him as he panicked, unsure of what the hell was going on. “Are you with me? Arthur?”

Slapping Arthur gently against his cheek did not seem to help. Grasping the sides of his face, Merlin shook his head violently. _Please, please, please, please, please, please, please come around Arthur, don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me. Don’t-_

“Arthur!” Merlin cried out, feeling useless. Was there a spell for something like this? Was there anything his good-for-nothing powers could actually do?

Before he had time to think any further, however, Arthur suddenly blinked.

“…Merlin?” He suddenly spoke out unperturbedly, staring at the man a few inches away from his face with an innocently dubious expression. “What on earth are you doing?”

“…What?” Merlin was momentarily stunned. Arthur had snapped out of his unexplained reverie as though nothing had happened. _What the hell?_

“Why are you…?” Arthur looked at Merlin with a mix of seriousness and hilarity, his cheeks growing pink.

“What?” Merlin swallowed hard, realizing his hands were still gripping the sides of Arthur’s face. “Er, I-”

“Weren’t you just sitting right over there?” The other man suddenly inquired, staring at the empty chair that had tipped over onto the ground in Merlin’s sudden flight into action.

“I thought I… saw something?”

“You saw something in my face?”

“…No?”

“Would you mind releasing your hold on it, then?”

“What?” Merlin blinked. _Right._ He quickly withdrew his hands from the sides of Arthur’s face and laughed nervously, blushing. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure you had a perfectly valid reason as to why you decided to clasp onto my head,’ Arthur said mockingly, though an air of incredulity remained in his eyes as he stared at Merlin. He actually looked a bit concerned for the utterly disoriented looking sorcerer kneeling on the ground.

“Do you… do you not recall what just happened?”

“Something happened?”

“What is the last thing you remember, Arthur?”

“For goodness sake, Merlin, we were just talking about… about… er. We were only just speaking about the… the… um, the…”

“Camelot,” Merlin uttered in a broken voice. “We were just talking about our memories of Camelot.”

“Right,” Arthur began, nodding his head. “That’s what I was getting on to.”

“Have you slept enough?” Merlin asked, his throat going dry. His level of concern had just shot through the roof. “Are you feeling well?”

“I’ve slept more than enough,” Arthur groaned, rolling his eyes. “And I feel better than ever. Aside from the whole, of course, knowing that I am an undead creature from the depths of a murky lake.”

“But, you just…” Merlin swallowed with difficulty. He suddenly pressed his hand against Arthur’s forehead, much to the other man’s sudden confusion. Was he sick? “No fever. You look all right. I don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what, exactly?” Arthur inquired, thoroughly confused.

“You just… no, nothing,” Merlin shook his head. He’d have to figure out this one on his own. It seemed everything in his life was keen on falling apart on his hands. “It was nothing. I thought I saw something, but I was wrong.”

“Alright then…” Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking up. “Are _you_ all right?”

“I’m fine,” Merlin responded as convincingly as possible, getting to his feet. “I’m still a bit on edge. Everything has been happening rather, er, fast these past few days.”

“Take it easy, Merlin,” Arthur sighed without looking at Merlin. “You’ve certainly been through enough. I’m only adding to that trouble by burdening you again.”

“Burdening me?” Merlin laughed out loud, but it was more so a disconnected, humourless sound from the back of his throat than anything else. “You think you’re burdening me?”

“Well, you’ve had to put up with me in the past, I just thought you might-”

“You’re not burdening me, Arthur,” Merlin stated, smiling weakly despite himself. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or if you’re being sincere,” Arthur chuckled, getting to his feet as well. “Am I to be offended or flattered?”

“Take it as you’d like,” Merlin responded, attempting to sound as light-hearted as possible despite the newest fear that grew within him at whatever the hell had just happened to Arthur. “Anyway, now that you mention it, I do feel a bit unwell. I might’ve caught cold. I’m going to take a shower. Please don’t kill anything or anyone by accident, including yourself, while I’m gone.”

“I don’t know, Merlin,” Arthur laughed, rolling his eyes. “I might trip and land upon my sword. Might fall and crack my head open. Tragedies that could not have been avoided.”

“Well, at least it wouldn’t be my fault this time,” Merlin responded, sounding a little bit more bitter than he intended. Arthur stopped laughing at once.

“Merlin-”

But the door of the bathroom had just shut behind Merlin with an unceremoniously loud thud. He blindly pulled at the knob that got the water running and let it begin to rush out of the showerhead. He just needed some type of sound. Some resounding and calming noise that would gather his wits about and let him mull over the constantly compiling blows of stress that seemed intent on striking every fibre of his being.

Merlin was angry. He was furious. And now, he was crying. Every single thing that could go wrong seemed geared towards going wrong. Was it really fair? Honestly? After everything he’s been through, after over a thousand and four hundred goddamned years of unspeakably horrible depression and self-imposed personal solitude? He had felt as though his chance at being happy again was on the horizon. Goodness knows how immense and indescribable Merlin’s joy had been as soon as Arthur’s sword in hand had broken through the ice atop the lake. But apparently, that was destined to be short-lived. Life did not seem to agree with Merlin. Which sucked, because he was stuck with life for eternity.

Gripping the edges of the sink, feeling the magic flow furiously through his veins as the ceramic crumbled beneath his fingers, Merlin stared at the mirror in front of him. Behind the vapor that had begun to rest upon the surface, he could see his reflection. He could see his eyes burn gold against his will. He could see the immense self-loathing that dwelled within them. Merlin looked into the mirror, and hated what he saw. He hated everything. But before he could look any longer, his glowing fist smashed through the glass.

Merlin was scared. He was scared for Arthur’s sake, scared for the inexplicable murder spree that happened in London, scared for the unexplainable mental replays of his unwelcome past, and scared of himself for reacting as he was. His anger scared him. As he stood in the scalding shower with his head pressed against the damp wall and his bleeding knuckles pressed against his side, Merlin felt small. He felt confused, lost, and very much afraid.

The streams of red blossomed from his fist and flowed down his pale, bare skin, gliding swiftly with the water and exiting down the drain below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like Simon, because I like him. A lot. And you'll be seeing quite a bit of him again, as well.
> 
> On another note, I'm beginning to fall behind on writing. Mid-winter break is almost over, and I've got a plethora of school work to catch up to. There might not be a major update next week depending on how much I can write, unfortunately. But this is only until I've gotten back on track with my schoolwork and have churned out enough pages to last for the next few updates.
> 
> Thank you for the continued positive feedback and wonderful comments you've been leaving! I cannot thank you all enough for how magnificent you guys are. I'm so glad you're enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing it! c:


	8. A First For Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After much pleading, Merlin reluctantly agrees to letting Arthur come to work with him. Well, as long as he'd stay put without a sound. Arthur's first day, out and about, in the year 2013, is a challenge that Merlin's not looking forward to.

It took a lot of self-restraint to keep Merlin from smiting his alarm clock into a pile of smouldering ash the very next morning. It buzzed obnoxiously into his ear from the old coffee table in front of where he slept, flickering maliciously with the unpleasant time of day in bright green numbers. With a heavy yawn, he slammed down the button that abruptly ended the buzzing and threw off his blanket. The sky was still somewhat dark outside at six in the morning, making him even more reluctant to sit up. But, despite how much he wanted to, especially after yesterday’s unfortunate string of events, he couldn’t miss work. Money, money, money. The work paid off in the end, though barely.

Tiptoeing quietly into his bedroom to pull out his uniform, Merlin tried his best to keep from awakening the snoring man stretched atop his tiny mattress. In his haste to move quickly, however, he tipped over his desk lamp, sending it smashing onto the floor below.

Exhaling with the utmost exasperation, Merlin swept his hand in the air in a flighty movement, and the pieces of the shattered lamp pulled together without a scratch. Placing it back on top of his desk, he carefully turned to see if the noise had roused the sleeping man out of slumber. Sure enough, Arthur grunted sleepily as he opened his eyes.

“Wha…” Arthur sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Merlin sighed. “Where are you off to?”

“Work,” Merlin muttered, pulling out his clothes. “Go back to sleep, Arthur.”

“I’m not tired,” he responded quietly with a yawn, looking up at Merlin with drooping eyelids. “When will you be back?”

“Same time as yesterday. By midday.”

“Are all your, er, ‘shifts’ or whatever this long?”

“They used to be longer,” Merlin sighed, feeling the emptiness of his wallet weigh against his bony hip. “My hours have been cut because of new workers.”

“You make that sound as though it is a bad thing.”

“That’s because it is. I make less money.”

“Why don’t you look for a new job, then?”

“There aren’t many opportunities around this area,” Merlin muttered, a little off-put by the sudden interrogation.

“Have you ever thought of leaving the area?” Arthur inquired innocently, completely unaware of the degree to which his question amused Merlin.

“You think I’ve been in this town for the past fifteen centuries?” he chuckled darkly, sitting down at the end of his bed by Arthur’s feet. “I’ve only been in this town for five years. Well, I mean, I’ve lived here before – I’ve lived in this town and the ones nearby more often than anywhere else. But never more than once or twice, maybe three times, in the same century, and only for about fifteen or twenty years at most, each time.”

“Why?”

“I don’t age. Remember? Living in the same area for too long, amongst normal people, has obviously got some repercussions. It’s actually quite funny, though. I remember the grandparents of the grandparents of the grandparents and so on and so forth of many of the people in this town today. In fact, I knew Ms. Marley’s fathe-”

“I didn’t mean that,” Arthur shook his head, furrowing his brow. “I meant, why have you lived _here_ more than anywhere else? No offense, but, what’s so great about this… place?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Merlin laughed weakly, his heart heavy. “It’s the closest to you. Closest to Avalon.”

Arthur looked at him with a thoughtful expression. He was visibly struggling over what to say.

“It’s rather sad and pathetic, to be honest,” Merlin continued, absentmindedly folding his black work shirt in his hands. “I’ve tried leaving this place many times, y’know. After the time that I told you about, staying by the lake itself for the first few hundred years. Since that time, I’ve been to many different lands and I’ve lived amongst many different populations. But no matter how hard I tried to truly leave this place behind me, I couldn’t. I always found myself coming back within a few short decades. Always.”

Even still, Arthur could not respond.

“But right now isn’t story time,” Merlin sighed, getting to his feet without looking at Arthur. “And I’m going to be late for work. Same rules as yesterday apply. I’ll be leaving you some food as well-”

“May I come with you?” Arthur suddenly inquired quietly. “I’ve got nothing to do here. I don’t think I’ve ever been stuck indoors for this long an amount of time.”

“You… want to come with me to work?” Merlin wasn’t sure if that would be a great idea. Arthur’s first experience outside in the real world, present day, in the food joint that Merlin works a degrading-as-hell job at? Yeah, no. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“Why not?” Arthur insisted innocently, getting to his feet. “I won’t be a nuisance to you. I desperately require fresh air.”

“The ‘fresh air’ of today is not the same fresh air that you are used to,” Merlin replied tonelessly, folding his arms into his chest. “Especially in this country. Which, by the way, is now called the United Kingdom.”

“United Kingdom?” It was as though Arthur held the words in his mouth, letting it sink in to fully comprehend their significance. He looked… proud. A warmth let up at the corner of his lips with a small smile. “That sounds beautiful.”

“Not everyone would agree with that,” Merlin muttered blankly, suddenly lost in the expression of his face. “But I suppose it does sound nice.”

“Yeah,” It took Arthur a few more moments to mull over the name. Merlin tried to slip away from the room before he could pry again; fat chance, it seemed.

“Will you allow me to accompany you or not?” Arthur reiterated, looking expectantly at the man by the door. Merlin sighed. He seemed very keen on getting out of the house.

“Can’t you just wait until I’m back?” Merlin groaned, holding his arms. “I told you I’d take you to the market, did I not?”

“Yes, but…”

“There’s a lot I need to teach you about modern etiquette, anyway,” Merlin insisted, instantly feeling bad over the crestfallen expression blossoming on Arthur’s face. “Don’t worry though. It’s essentially dumbing yourself down. Chivalry is, for the most part, dead. Manners are scarce.”

“This era sounds savage,” Arthur muttered, looking nauseous. “What about the knights of the realm? Have they all lost their values? Is there no honour on this land?”

“There are no knights,” Merlin admitted quietly, looking away from Arthur as quickly as possible. “Well, okay, there are. But not at all in the sense that you remember them.”

“No knights?” Arthur sounded utterly outraged. “You’re telling me that this land has no knights, no protectors of the people and of the cores of the kingdoms?”

“There are protectors of the nation, but they’re not adorned in chainmails and they do not necessarily wield swords upon horses. They’re a lot different.”

“I want to go back home,” Arthur sighed, looking pained and very much like an elderly man standing in the middle of an Apple store. “I feel sick.”

“Like, I-require-a-bucket-at-once sick or just, you know, sick?”

“A mixture of both.”

“Would it comfort you to know that buckets are still the same in this century?” Merlin chuckled, desperately trying to find a way to lift Arthur’s spirits and coming up very short. “Well, most are made out of plastic now rather than metal or wood, but-”

“Plastic?”

“Really a nice product of the century, to be honest. Lightweight, cheap, and, for all intents and purposes, a durable material. Much easier to produce compared to wood work and smithing. Basically everything is made of out the stuff these days, though it does do quite a number on the environment.”

Arthur didn’t respond. Instead, he flopped back down onto the pillow, exhaling sharply. Merlin frowned.

“I’m going to go change,” he whispered, quickly stepping out of the bedroom. “Give me a moment.”

There was no way Merlin was going to change into his work clothes in front of Arthur. In the past, his reasoning would’ve been because of painfully inferior he felt, physically, to him and the rest of the knights. But now, his reasoning was much less vain. He could not let Arthur see the true extent of the damage he had inflicted upon himself over the long and difficult years.

It hadn’t been easy for Merlin. Not even remotely close. Scars, they don’t just go away. And as Merlin briefly glanced at his naked chest reflected through the mirror above his sink, every healed over gash that disfigured his torso in various shades of silvery pinks and browns reminded him of the stories behind them. His body was a book; a tragic novel enduring the ages as they came and went.

No. Arthur was never to find out about the remains of the many slashes and stabs that Merlin’s chest, alone, had endured by his own hand. Each and every single one of them a permanent reminder of each failure.

“So, can I come or not?” Arthur pined once again as Merlin returned to his bedroom, retrieving his apron. “You work at a dining hall, do you not? I will not get in your way.”

“But I won’t be able to keep an eye on you!” Merlin complained, desperately trying to avoid ‘Bring Your Undead Best Friend To Work Day’ at all costs. “Especially for your first day outside. It will be immensely difficult for you. I want to be there for every single moment.”

“Merlin,” Arthur pleaded, looking up at him with big blue eyes of sincerity that were incredibly difficult to refuse. “Unless the people enjoy their meals while standing in this century, I am sure I can simply find a place to sit and do absolutely nothing. I promise. I just want to watch the people. I want to get an idea of what to expect for later today. I shall not say a single word. I just want to get my mind off of a few… things. Please.”

In truth, it would be an efficient way to get Arthur away from thoughts that he should avoid thinking at all costs. But it would most definitely introduce new thoughts for which he was certainly not ready. He was very much unprepared as to what to expect. Merlin could envision it now; Arthur looking incredibly uncomfortable and severely out of place, crouched in the corner of an empty booth with terror in his eyes as he witnessed the horror that was the modern age.

Okay, he ought to give Arthur more credit. He was once the damn King of Camelot, for goodness sake! He could withstand armies of thousands of savage, brutal men; he could endure sitting in a noisy pub for a couple of hours. Merlin was the one overreacting, here.

“You promise to stay put?” Merlin inquired seriously, feeling as though there was no way that this could end well.

“I swear to you.”

“You promise you’ll call for my attention as soon as you need me? No matter what the issue is?”

“Yes, yes, I swear.”

“Fine,” Merlin sighed, heading out of his bedroom. “We’re leaving in a bit. Dress warmly.”

“You have got to stop acting like such a mother,” Arthur muttered, hopping out of bed with a new spring in his step and following Merlin out of the room. “I am a grown man.”

“Says the man who required me to clothe and feed him on a daily basis,” Merlin snickered, throwing a comb into Arthur’s hand. “Your hair is a bit messy. Unless you’d like mummy to take care of that as well, darling child of mine.”

“Shut up.”

Within a few minutes, Arthur had taken care of his hair and thrown on one of his new jackets, set and ready to enter the new world. Damn. He wasn’t going to have a hard time out there as far as attention went. Arthur looked more like a male model than anything else; a celebrity that certainly did not belong in a nondescript town such as this. He was precisely the same Prince Charming that young girls dreamt of having; a title that was not too far off from reality. His golden blonde hair with a boyish fringe, bright blue eyes, and strong jaw would certainly sway the lady patrons at O’Connelly’s away from Simon and into his grasp.

It was really beginning to feel like old times again. Take that, as you will, sarcastically or not.

“Now, first things first,” Merlin began as they walked out the door, teaching-mode activated. “Don’t walk like that.”

“Walk like what?” Arthur’s brows furrowed; he looked somewhat offended. He strode with the utmost stately posture, his chin held up high and his steps even with a sense of nobility. No. That was wrong. People don’t walk like they’re entering royal halls to greet a round table of knights.

“You’re walking like a king,” Merlin stated, unsure of how to put his criticism into words. “Which, you are, of course. But you can’t act like one out here in the open. You’ll get looked at funny,” Though, to be quite honest, with that face, he didn’t have to worry about disappointing anybody. But Merlin wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Well then,” Arthur looked very much offended at this point. “Please, Merlin. Educate me on how the modern man carries himself.”

“Slouch just a little,” Merlin began, demonstrating. “Just enough to make it look like you’re not trying too hard. But not too much to the point of looking like you simply do not care. People are easily intimidated by those who stand up straighter than them.”

“That’s absolutely idiotic. You have got to be joking.”

“I’m completely serious,” Merlin insisted, trying hard not to laugh at Arthur’s obvious distaste. “Shorten your stride a bit. Ease up a bit too – I can almost feel the tension emanate from your body. You’re in no hurry. Nothing dire is at your heels. Thankfully.”

“This is insane,” Arthur complained, looking awkwardly uncomfortable as he attempted to emulate Merlin’s directions while walking to the lift. “The way I walk, of all things…”

“We’ll work on your speech mannerisms another day,” Merlin suggested as the lift doors opened.

“Wait,” Arthur eyed the automatically opening doors with awe. “I thought-”

“No, not my magic,” Merlin chuckled, pointing at the button. “Just a press of this button, and mechanical contraptions do the rest.”

“That’s amazing,” Arthur kept his eyes on the door as he stepped in with Merlin, watching carefully as the latter man pressed more buttons. “How did people come up with things like this?”

“The want for speed and efficiency, my friend,” Merlin stated as the rickety contraption descended down to the lobby. He noticed the fright that quickly flickered through Arthur’s face as the tiny enclosure jolted into movement. “A combination that rules the minds of many.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, I suppose.”

“Until the greed for money and power comes into the picture,” Merlin sighed, having witnessed this recurring theme in the world’s history throughout his long, long, long, _long_ life. “Then, virtues are lost and morals are abandoned.”

“A timeless flaw of human nature,” Arthur agreed bitterly. Merlin could almost see the unpleasant memories flash through the other man’s eyes. Most certainly pertaining to Morgana. He swallowed hard.

“Anyway,” Merlin began weakly, stepping out of the lift with Arthur trailing closely behind. The lobby, as expected at this early time of day, was mostly empty; save for the kind, smiling old man who ran the front desk for as long as Merlin could remember. “If anyone asks, you are my friend from, er, university. And you’re here visiting me.”

“University?”

“Higher education,” Merlin explained, recalling that Arthur had grown up privately educated by the royal tutors of the kingdom. “Schooling for when you’re an adult.”

“I see,” Arthur mused. “But I thought I was your brother-in-law, visiting from… where on earth did you say I was from again?”

“America,” Merlin muttered as Arthur’s face contorted into confusion again. “It’s, er, another nation a distance away from here. Across the ocean. It’s massive, to say the least.”

“As big as the United Kingdom?”

“Much, much larger than the United Kingdom,” Merlin admitted. “When I’ve got the money, I’ll take you one day. I’ve been to California, Washington, Massachusetts, New York, and Nevada as well, I believe. I hear Florida is quite nice, though I haven’t been there myself.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Arthur looked completely confused again. “I thought you were talking about America?”

“No, Florida is a state within America, formally called the United States.”

“America, Florida, United States, Massa-something…” Arthur looked just about ready to give up again. “This is all one country?”

“There are fifty states in the United States,” Merlin replied sheepishly, trying his hardest not to chuckle at the complete bewilderment on Arthur’s face. “Florida, as well as those, uh, other names I mentioned, are a few of those states. They are territorial divisions, essentially.”

“You’ve got to remember _fifty_ names for one place?” Arthur inquired seriously, looking utterly shocked. “How do they do it?”

“Dunno,” Merlin replied, smiling. “I’m not American. But if you think that’s bad, then you don’t want to know that the United Kingdom is actually four countries in one. And you don’t even want me to begin with the how many goddamn counties exist within each one. Think of them as separate kingdoms, like the ones that surrounded Camelot. But not really.”

Merlin stopped talking as soon as he realized the utter exasperation etched on every inch of Arthur’s face.

A few silent moments later, they stepped out into the cold air. The weather was significantly more pleasant than it was the day before; it was not snowing. Arthur drew in a sharp breath, looking rather off-put.

“It doesn’t smell… right,” he stated, furrowing his brow. “I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Like I said,” Merlin began, frowning. “The air is a lot different now. You can thank poor environmental attention for that.”

“Look at all this,” Arthur stared out into the street in front of him, his eyes darting back and forth between every single detail. He eyed the asphalt road, the streetlights, the few passing cars that sped by and blew cold air into their faces. He was at a loss for words. “I don’t understand… any of it…”

“We can still turn back now if you’d like,” Merlin insisted, grabbing Arthur’s shoulder assuredly. “You don’t have to go through this today.”

“No,” Arthur drew in another deep breath. “I can do it.”

“I believe in you.”

“Thank you,” Arthur whispered, a sarcastic look of gratitude in his eyes as he looked back at Merlin. “Lead the way.”

Merlin looked at Arthur with another moment’s worth of hesitance. Maybe this was not the best idea? No, that was a given. This was a terrible idea. But Arthur was resolute. He was confident in his abilities to cope with his situation. And Merlin, being Merlin, was prepared to stand by Arthur’s decisions, no matter what. He cursed himself for his unfailing loyalty.

“It’s not too far a walk away from here,” Merlin assured him as they strolled down the street. Arthur was clearly not listening; he was lost in his surroundings, his head tilting in every direction as he surveyed the unfamiliar setting. A couple more cars flew by, startling Arthur as they passed. Thank goodness there were no lorries in sight; he’d have a heart attack, by the looks of it.

“Cars,” Arthur gulped as a particularly rusty Volkswagen drove past. “I don’t think I’m going to get used to those any time soon.”

“Being inside them is an entirely different story,” Merlin assured him as they rounded an intersection. “It’s a lot more comfortable than riding a horse. It’s like a tiny room that moves, with warm seats and music coming from a little box in front of you.”

“How on earth does music come out of a little box?” Arthur inquired, confusion in his face yet again. “Where do the musicians go?”

“It’s a lot like the television,” Merlin explained as they waited for the signal to cross the road. “And like the laptop. The same science goes behind it.”

“A science I will never understand,” Arthur sighed, looking crestfallen. “Why have we stopped?”

“Got to obey traffic laws,” Merlin replied, nodding his head toward the flashing traffic lights above. The morning rush traffic was not nearly as severe today as it normally was; for that, he was absolutely grateful. “It’ll tell us when it’s safe to cross the road. So people don’t run us down with their cars.”

“Well that’s smart, I suppose,” Arthur continued to look speculatively at the lights as they changed color. Suddenly, the walk signal was lit.

“All right, quickly now,” Merlin began walking, but Arthur did not budge, his eyes stuck on the faces behind each windshield. Groaning, Merlin doubled back and grabbed Arthur by the arm, towing him across the remainder of the walk.

“Here’s some advice,” Merlin muttered as he released his grip on Arthur upon reaching the sidewalk. “Don’t ever stop in the middle of the road, crosswalk or not.”

“I know,” Arthur sighed, his eyes still fixed on the cars that drove by as lights changed to let them pass. “I was just… sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Merlin assured him, feeling guilty. “I just don’t want you to die again, especially via motor vehicle accident.”

“Motor vehicle?”

“Fancy name for cars.”

“Ah.”

They continued walking for another fifteen or so minutes with little conversation between them. Arthur’s attention was almost entirely focused on each and every building they passed, the various people who strode by, the business adverts, and all other aspects of urban life. Merlin could barely begin to imagine how foreign everything must have looked to the guy; waking up after almost a thousand and a half years of being dead made you miss a lot. A hell of a lot.

Arthur was clearly trying to walk with the posture Merlin had described; but it was not working. The only word he could think of to describe what he was witnessing was simply… uncomfortable. Merlin wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry.

It was genuinely funny to witness Arthur’s expressions as they passed by the few people who walked out this early in the morning. From the corner of his eye, Merlin could see his face contort from confusion to distaste to utter disbelief as he eyed the appearances he witnessed; from the businessman walking with haste, a cup of coffee in one hand and a briefcase clenched in the other, to the groups of teenagers with headphones buzzing in their ears heading to morning classes, and to the various early bird joggers, who dashed by in their tight tracksuits and windswept hair held back by sweatbands.

“Any comments?” Merlin quipped, nudging Arthur in the elbow.

“Several,” Arthur responded, his voice small and disconnected. “Not quite sure as to how I should word them, though.”

“I understand,” Merlin assured, doing his best not to laugh at his obvious discomfort. “Believe me, I do.”

“I can’t believe I’m dressed like this,” Arthur muttered, looking down at his attire. “I can’t believe you got me to do this.”

“Walking around in your armor wouldn’t do in this century.”

“At the very least, why wouldn’t you let me bring my sword?

“Because that would be illegal,” Merlin explained for the umpteenth time, rolling his eyes. “You’d get arrested, and I’d be embarrassed.”

“Arrested for what?” Arthur complained, gritting his teeth. “For wanting to protect myself while lost in this unknown land?”

“You’re forgetting who I am,” Merlin chuckled. “The greatest sorcerer to have ever lived, remember?”

“Right,” Arthur sighed deeply, looking away. For some reason, this made Merlin feel slightly gutted. Hadn’t he come around to accept him for who he was? “I almost forgot.”

“I, er…” Merlin whispered, feeling sick. “I thought you were okay with it.”

“I am, Merlin,” Arthur assured him, slowly turning his head to look back at him with a thoughtful expression. “But I haven’t forgotten how badly I’ve treated you in the past.”

“You didn’t know,” Merlin assured him, immensely relieved as the weight in his stomach disappeared. “And I’ve never once thought badly of you for it. Not once.”

“I wish…” Arthur seemed to struggle to find the words to say. Merlin didn’t like this conversation very much. “I wish I had more time. Back then. To let you know how grateful I-”  
“There it is, over there,” Merlin interrupted, pointing out O’Connelly’s a short distance away. He didn’t want to talk about this right now. He genuinely couldn’t do it. “Now, remember what I told you-”

“Merlin-”

“Not now, we’ll talk about this later. Anyway, remember to just stay put and don’t speak unless absolutely necessary.”

“Right, I know.”

“I’m going to keep an eye on you as best I can,” Merlin continued as they approached the doors. “Don’t pay any attention to my boss. He’s an oaf and a bastard, and isn’t worth your anger, should he make any snide remarks to you. In fact, I doubt he’ll confront you. Or notice you. I’m going to make sure he doesn’t.”

“I’m going to be fine, Merlin,” Arthur sighed as Merlin threw open the door and let him slide. “For goodness sake…”

The bells on the door jingled as it shut behind them. Merlin was very early; only Simon and an elderly chef were around, seemingly too busy minding their own business to notice their arrival.

“Thank god,” Merlin sighed in relief. “All right, let me-”

“Oi!” came a raucous voice from behind, much to Merlin’s annoyance. “Emmers!”

“That’s Simon,” he whispered to Arthur, who was eyeing the other man with confusion. “He’s… an acquaintance. It’s all right.”

“Who d’you have here?” Simon strolled by, throwing a towel over his shoulder as he neared the odd pair. “Is this your old pal from uni you’ve been gushing about?”

“Gushing?” Merlin raised an annoyed brow at the grinning freckled boy. “Hardly.”

“Yeah, yeah. What’s your name, mate?”

Arthur didn’t respond. He looked at Merlin, who had specifically told him not to speak. Merlin stared back, trying to communicate with his eyes that, yes, for goodness sake, just go ahead and tell him your name!

“Arthur Pendragon of Camelot,” Arthur responded with an uncomfortably stiff voice, much to Merlin’s utter distress. _Are you kidding me, Arthur? Are you kidding me?_

“What?” Simon laughed awkwardly, peering at him with raised brows. After a moment of silence, the redhead smacked Arthur’s shoulder playfully, chuckling once more much to the other man’s discomfort. “Oh, I get it. Arthur. Merlin. Your friend’s a card, mate. That’s witty, I’ll give him that.”

“Yeah…” Merlin coughed nervously, feeling his face flood with heat. Dammit. “It’s our running gag. His name’s Arthur, mine’s Merlin. You can’t just let go of an opportunity like that one, eh?”

All the while, Arthur stared at the two with wide eyes. Unsurprisingly enough, he looked to be a mixture of confused and offended. Merlin laughed nervously. This was going badly.

“He’s looking to get his fill of this part of the country,” he continued, patting Arthur on the back. “Thought I’d bring him around to this old place for a day while I worked. This restaurant is a local legend, is it not?”

“Yep,” Simon said while looking around the greasy old joint with the utmost pride. “It’s been running in my family for generations,” A fun fact; Merlin had met every single owner of the restaurant at some point in his life. Its current owner was, by far, the worst. “I’ll be owning it myself, soon enough.”

“It is a fine establishment,” Arthur quietly remarked, looking right at Merlin with a wary look that seemed to ask ‘am I doing this right?’ Merlin wanted to slap himself repeatedly.

“Thanks, mate,” Simon responded, looking at Arthur with peculiarity.

“Think your uncle will be okay with him sitting here?” Merlin inquired before Arthur could say anything else. “He’ll be staying put. Won’t be a bother, I promise.”

“As if the dim old bloke would notice a thing,” Simon assured him. “He’ll be all right.”

“Good,” Merlin responded happily, though even if his boss had raised his voice, he’d ‘convince’ him otherwise. “I’ll be right out to help you in a sec, let me help him settle in.”

“Sounds good,” Simon said cheerfully, pulling the towel off his shoulder and backing away. Looking at Arthur with one last strange expression, he waved. “Hey, it was nice meeting you, brother. The three of us ought to grab a pint some time while you’re still around.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agreed awkwardly, nodding his head. “Sure.”

“He seemed friendly,” Arthur noted quietly, watching Simon as he jogged back to the counter. “But am I not allowed to introduce myself properly?”

“You can’t go around announcing all that!” Merlin replied exasperatedly. “’Arthur Pendragon of Camelot’… yeah, no. You can’t do that in this century. Like I told you. Our names? Literature. Fiction. Myth. No one is going to take you seriously. They’ll laugh and call you bonkers.”

That came out a lot more harshly than Merlin had wanted. Arthur looked severely crestfallen as he sunk onto the leather bench of the booth, sliding his way to the end against the window.

“I didn’t think it was that… severe,” he sighed, looking out the glass that separated him from the outside.

“I wish it were not so,” Merlin replied, taking a seat across him. “I’m sorry. Introducing yourself as Arthur will be enough.”

“How could everything I once had be taken away from me this quickly?” Arthur muttered bitterly, narrowing his eyes. “Even my name holds no worth. How could that have happened? I was the King of Camelot not even a week ago! Now I’m just… Arthur? That’s all? Arthur, no name, no title, no nothing?”

“Don’t say that,” Merlin whispered, reaching across the table to pat him on the arm supportively. Yep. This was a bad idea. He’d be alone with his thoughts again. “I can’t stress this enough, Arthur. You’re still Arthur. You’re still Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot. You. Are. Still. _You_.”

“I can’t be _me_ without the people who have made _me_ who _I_ am by my side,” Arthur sighed, his eyes watering over. Merlin swallowed hard as silence fell between them, only to be interrupted a moment later. “I owe much of who I am to you, however. And for that, I am inexpressibly grateful.”

“You’re who you are because of _you_ ,” Merlin replied, feeling warmth flood into his chest. “I just, you know, made your bed and washed your clothing. Saved your life a couple times, too, I guess. But that’s about it.”

“You’re right,” Arthur chuckled quietly, staring at his hands perched on the top of the ceramic table. “You are still the same.”

The moment was interrupted by the obnoxious jingle of the bells placed above the front doors. Merlin could easily identify the disgruntled grunts from a mile away. He sighed.

“Are you sure you want to sit here doing absolutely nothing until midday?” Merlin asked once again, rising to his feet. “It’s not too late to turn back now.”

“I am determined to observe the people,” Arthur stated, straightening his posture at once.

“Whatever you wish,” Merlin sighed, turning to head back to the counter. “I’ll drop by as many times as I can. With food.”

“Don’t risk your job for my sake,” Arthur assured him, smiling weakly. “I’ll be fine.”

Nodding hesitantly, Merlin headed for the front counter. Arthur was once the king of one of the greatest kingdoms to have ever stood on these lands. He felt tremendously bad for the lack of faith he had in the guy, but this was an entirely new challenge.

It was not that Merlin feared Arthur’s inability to cope with his modern surroundings; no, he knew him and his strength of heart far too well to ever think that simply toughing a brave new world would break him. It was the idea of leaving Arthur alone to his own thoughts, so separated from where he was that it forced him to cling onto his memories for piece of mind. Memories that were far too fresh in his mind to be healthy.

Merlin had no way of knowing what exactly was going on through that head of his. And that is precisely what scared him the most. For all he knew, a full-blown war might be coursing through the threads of his mind, tearing him apart from the inside. Arthur’s reactions to learning of the deaths of the figures from the life he had only barely left behind were disconcerting. He had grieved the news upon hearing it; he had shed tears over Gwen and the loss of his other closest companions. But that was…. That was it. For the past few days, Arthur’s angst was not hidden from the eye, but it was not as severe as Merlin had genuinely expected it to be. He expected full-blown mental destruction; yells of anger and fury and disbelief, a complete shunning of the truth and a staunch refusal to accept anything Merlin told him. He expected lamps to be shattered, tables to be thrown, and chairs to be crushed, at the very least. But none of that came to pass. And it was the calm nature of Arthur’s outward pain that genuinely scared the hell out of Merlin.

Not to mention that moment where he had gone completely blank at the table in his flat. When Arthur had seemingly turned into a statue of flesh and blood and nothing more, staring out into nothingness beyond his glassy eyes. That was clearly not normal. There was something very wrong with that episode, alone.

For the next few hours, Merlin was unable to focus on his job as well as his boss probably would’ve liked. Thankfully, he hadn’t been around much, most likely grieving over his latest failures in horse race gambling, or something of the like. Between balancing dirty dishes, refilling condiments, and checking up on Arthur every waking moment, it became very apparent that Merlin was not the best multi-tasker. After the fourth dish he accidentally sent shattering to the ground, Simon decided it was time to step in.

“Need the rest of the day off or something?” he inquired, leaning down to aide him in gathering the cheap ceramic shards. “Are you sick or are you just knackered?”

“Neither,” Merlin sighed, sweeping up the left over splinters. “I’ve got a load on my mind, is all.”

“At least there’s something there.”

“…What do you mean?”

“Dunno how to describe it really,” Simon began tentatively, his freckled forehead knotting up into a bunch. “No offense, mate, but talking to you is, well… It usually feels like I’m chatting up a robot.”

“None taken,” Merlin sighed, the two men rising to their feet. “But I still don’t know what you mean.”

“Today,” Simon continued, his eyes flickering to the corner where Arthur sat alone, drumming his fingers lightly as he peered out the window. “Yesterday. Mister ‘Perfect Attendance Award’ suddenly gone missing for three days?”

“What on earth are you getting at?”

“I mean, at first I thought you weren’t all too fond of me, y’know, with all your half-arsed responses. But then I just figured that’s just ‘cos you’re a quiet bloke, is all. And now all of a sudden, you’re chatting me up like you actually give a damn about what I’m saying?”

“Er, I’m sorry, I-”

“I don’t mean it in a bad way, brother. I’m just saying… you’re different now. It’s seriously weirding me out.”

“I’m… sorry?” Merlin wasn’t stupid. He easily gathered what Simon was getting at. The thing is, it was true. There was a slight spring in his step and a sparkle in his eyes ever since Arthur’s return, despite the new issues that came with it, and he was not blind to his own changes. But, seriously, if your closest and dearest companion from a thousand, four hundred and seventy-four years ago who died in your arms suddenly popped out of a lake, in _mostly_ good shape, wouldn’t you react the same?

“Don’t apologize, mate,” Simon patted his shoulder cheerily, grinning like he almost always did at all hours of the day. His green eyes flickered over to Arthur again, lingering slightly longer than what pertains to a ‘flicker’. “It’s nice. Dunno how long this is gonna last, but, I hope it does.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Merlin chuckled, raising a judgmental eyebrow at Mister Freckles. “But, hey, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“So, what’s the story?”

“About…?” Merlin sighed; Simon’s knack for talking too much slipped out yet again.

“Your pal, Arthur,” he inquired, once again glancing at the table where he sat. “He’s a bit odd, no?”

“Yeah,” Merlin responded lamely as they walked back to the kitchens, disposing the broken pieces into the bin. “The man’s been through a lot. Give him a break.”

“I reckon you’re not keen on letting me know what exactly it is that he’s been through?”

“You’ve reckoned correctly.”

“Like I always tell you,” Simon sighed, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his apron. “I’m your friend, and you can trust the hell out of me.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Merlin responded, exhaling sharply. “It’s just… something I can’t talk about. Please, let’s leave it at that.”

“Of course,” Simon responded sincerely, the smile on his face faltering. “Didn’t mean to pry, mate. I’m sorry.”

“Not a problem,” Merlin, as always, instantly felt bad. Arthur coming back was really making him a big sap again. He was actually beginning to like not giving a damn about anything or anyone. “Look, I’ll give you this much. He hasn’t really… been around people for a while.”

“Prison?” Simon chuckled, refilling a mustard bottle. “Detainment? Under the radar off in Siberia or something?”

“Come off it,” Merlin rolled his eyes, stifling a laugh as he headed for the dirty dishes. “His people skills are a bit rusty. That’s all.”

“Definitely a secret agent,” he concluded, following close behind. “The guy must have a few stories to tell.

“That’s an understatement,” Merlin replied, smiling to himself. Upon entering the back of the kitchen, both he and Simon found themselves staring at the small group of coworkers huddled nearby the tiny radio that always inhabited the shelf above the drying rack. Each day, picking the station was chosen by flipping a coin. But today, no one listened to any form of music. It was the buzzing sound of a news station. Merlin’s heart skipped several beats as he realized what he was listening to.

 _“-three days since the incident and not a peep about the details! We’re talking about hundreds of conspiracy theories and stories of the like coming from every corner of the World Wide Web. I don’t remember a single time in my days where it’s taken this long for any solid details to come out of a mess! What’s taking them so long? There’s-_ ”

“Damn,” muttered a middle-aged waitress with bleach blonde hair and heavy blue eye shadow. Her name was Dolly, and never once has she been seen on her breaks doing anything else but smoking a cigarette or two right outside the backdoor. “Not gonna take a single step into London until I know what’s going on. That’s for sure.”

“I don’t blame you,” replied a tired looking chef known as Ajeet, whose typically comedic personality was very much unapparent at this time. “My kid’s friend lost an uncle over there. They deserve some answers.”

“What’s the final count on the death toll?” Simon asked, walking toward the group. Merlin was frozen to his spot. He had accidentally let the incident slip from his mind.

“Fourty-seven,” Dolly replied, leaning back against a sink with her arms folded into her chest. “Thirty-three were just regular folks, and the other fourteen were employees.”

“Have they said anything else?” the freckled young man pressed on, looking uneasy. Merlin swallowed with difficulty.

“They haven’t told us a fuckin’ thing,” she responded bitterly, glaring at the tiny radio against the wall. “All we know is that they’re dead, and there wasn’t a speck of blood on the scene.”

“All the money is gone, too,” Ajeet inserted, shutting off the radio with distaste. “No sign of a break in. How the hell can you explain that?”

“I heard a survivor on the telly the other day,” Simon sighed, furrowing his brow. “She was probably scared out of her wits and just rambling nonsense, but… she said people were just, well, hitting the floor? From where she was hiding under her desk, she could see them just… just fall over. And dying. No bullets, no knives, no nothing. Now that, I’d like to hear them explain.”

You couldn’t explain it. Not unless you were Merlin.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they were walking back home, Merlin considered the trip to be somewhat of a success for Arthur. He had not called for any form of help at all, having remained silently in his seat throughout the duration of his shift. He had discovered the wonder of a certain carbonated drink by the name of Coca-Cola, the magic of a cheeseburger with chips on the side, and the practicality of drinking straws. All, of course, smuggled to him in secret by Merlin during his few breaks. But he did not mind, however; in truth, he was excited to serve Arthur his first burger. He had a feeling the man would enjoy them – and Arthur did, so much that he ended up eating two.

“At least the food in this century is decent,” he remarked to Merlin as they slipped out the jingling doorway. “Half-decent.”

“The only modern food you’ve eaten is a burger,” Merlin responded, zipping up his jacket as the cold wind brushed against his face. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

Throughout the unnerving long hours, Merlin had been constantly checking up on the man who did not look happy as he sat alone, his face pressed against the foggy window, looking on toward the variety of people who walked by. This was to be expected. But Merlin could not quite shake off the uneasiness it gave him to see Arthur so incredibly out of place. Sure, he was out of his armor and into socially acceptable clothing. For all intents and purposes, he looked like any other modern day young man. Well, besides the far-above-average good looks that could’ve easily landed him on the cover of Men’s Vogue.

He looked normal. And yet, he did not. Partially because Merlin never once imagined seeing Arthur donning jeans, but also because this man was once the glorious king of a glorious nation, an esteemed knight who directed his army into war with tact and skill and incredible morale. This man would spend his days on foot or on horse, either dealing with his duties as monarch with his knights by his side, speaking to his court and conversing with the lords and nobles of the realm. If not at his desk signing documents and reading court requests, he was out on hunts, aided by his men and scouring for wild game and defeating a small group of rebels or rogues every now and then. He lived a busy life, but this life was noble. It was noble, it was important, and it was the only life he was ever used to.

But here was Arthur Pendragon, the very same man, formerly a king, leaning against a foggy window in some nondescript eatery in an insignificant town filled with unimportant people. Wearing jeans. _Jeans_.

To make matters worse, the life Arthur was used to was the only life that he remembered. The life that Arthur could remember as clearly as having lived a little more than a week ago. It was then that Merlin truly began to realize how severe this reality was; that the reality Arthur knew was taken away from him in one fell swoop. Arthur was stuck in a world as unfamiliar as can be; everything he had, gone. His daily routine was destroyed. And Merlin feared, more than anything in the world, what this was doing to him.

None of his dreams ever included Arthur’s return coming with this much damage. Never once did Merlin imagine it would be this difficult.

As they retraced their earlier steps back home, Merlin remained apprehensive about his companion, whose eyes did not lift up from the ground below him. He wanted to say something. He wanted to make conversation with Arthur, to make sure that nothing had occurred during those few moments when he was too busy to keep on eye on his general direction. Was there anything he had to say? Anything? Anything at all?

Merlin was close to twitching. Silence has never been this unnerving before.

“So…” he began awkwardly, clearing his throat. “How was it? Your first time out and about in the year 2013?”

“It was alright,” Arthur mumbled in response, peering away from his shoes and looking out toward the cars that populated the busy road beside them. “I cannot wrap my head around the people I saw. Their clothing. When did women start wearing trousers and tunics?”

“You know, that change didn’t come till about forty or so years ago,” Merlin chuckled, relieved that his mind was not occupied with the thoughts he feared he’d be thinking. “It is actually a lot more recent than you’d think.”

“It’s strange,” Arthur remarked, turning to gaze at a newspaper stand on the other side of the road surrounded by people. “Though I do suppose it’s a lot more convenient. Guinevere always tells me about how often she trips up on her skirts. And to be honest, I don’t know how women do it.”

Guinevere. Arthur was thinking about Guinevere. Merlin swallowed hard.

“Women are able to do a lot more in this age than during our time,” Merlin stated, feeling uneasy by the melancholy that had quickly overcome Arthur’s features. “They’ve got a lot more independence. You would be fascinated by the accomplishments we owe to women in this century. They perform jobs and take up careers that you’d probably believe to only be proper for men to do.”

“If there is one thing that knowing Gwen… and Morgana…  has taught me, it is that women are more than capable enough to fulfill whatever it is they want to accomplish,” Arthur remarked fondly as they reached a stoplight. “I would’ve been proud to ride alongside a woman into battle. I’d be honoured to call her a fellow knight of Camelot.”

“As would I,” Merlin agreed. “It saddens me to say that the foolishness of men throughout the centuries is the reason why that hasn’t been a possibility until only a few decades ago.”

“We owe a lot to the women in our lives,” Arthur insisted, sighing deeply. “I owe a lot to Guinevere. And to Morgana.”

“Why Morgana?” Merlin muttered, bitterly surprised at the mention of her name. “Morgana is the reason you _died_.”

“Do you not remember the Morgana we used to know?” Arthur inquired as Merlin grabbed his arm and towed him across the street. “Before… everything?”

“Do you not remember me telling you I don’t remember much of anything from my past in Camelot?”

“…Sorry,” Arthur mumbled awkwardly as Merlin freed him from his grasp. “There was a time where Morgana was the kindest person I knew. Even before you came along. When we were kids. Morgana taught me how to be a good person. She was there for me when I was sick with fever, when I was crying over a stubbed toe, when I was sent to my chambers for being an unruly child. Especially her, who had only just lost the father she had known and loved a few years before and was forced to be my father’s ward. She still loved me like a brother, even before either of us knew that we shared blood.”

Merlin wasn’t sure of how to respond. His memories of Morgana were vague; he did not recall her face, nor did he remember her voice, but he did recollect what she had done. The pain she had wrought, but much less of anything else. His grief over Arthur’s loss had long destroyed the pleasant memories he had of her before she had fallen to the path of evil. Much of who she had been outside of her cruel deeds had been lost to his mind.

Arthur did not continue. He remained silent, gazing off toward the individuals who scuttled past them in the midday rush. Merlin felt bad for having nothing to say; Arthur’s voice, as he spoke of Morgana, was indescribable; it held a grief that pierced through his heart, a regret that sank through his skin and enveloped his chest. It was clear that Arthur’s thoughts were in a very bad place, the exact place where Merlin was hoping to avoid. He should say something. He should-

_HE HAS RETURNED. ARTHUR PENDRAGON HAS RETURNED. THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING HAS RISEN, ONCE AGAIN._

Merlin was suddenly hit with an electrifying pain as an unknown, ethereal voice resounded in his head. The abrupt pain sent him collapsing onto the sidewalk, blind and gasping for air. The agony flooded through his brain, sending the shocks through his nerves and traveling throughout his body. He could not see nor hear Arthur, who found himself unable to move as he stared, wide-eyed, at the twitching figure before him.

 _Albion will fall_.

And, as quickly as it happened, the pain disappeared. He felt the astounding pressure lift from his body, the electrifying shocks ceasing to flow through his veins. His sight and hearing returned, and soon enough, he felt his arms being tugged at from behind as strangers stared on nearby.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted into his ear anxiously, pulling him to his feet. “Are you alright?”

Merlin was not alright. He was confused and terrified as he registered what had just happened to him; it was the same pain he experienced briefly while watching the news and hearing Arthur’s voice again that first day of his return, though magnified to the extreme. The agony was absolute; it wrought pain throughout his entire body, but just as soon as it came, it was gone. There was no soreness, no lingering ache that was proof of the incident occurring in the first place. It lasted a few seconds and abruptly dissipated without leaving behind any rhyme or reason as to why it happened.

Merlin had, quite obviously, already known of Arthur’s return. But whose ungodly voice had uttered those words? And for what purpose did they ring through his head? The last three words sent chills running through Merlin’s spine.

_Albion will fall._

His heart faltered.

“I’m fine,” Merlin assured him, blinking rapidly as he stared at the ground below him. He felt strange. There was no pain, and, yet, there was something off about how he felt. His energy had disappeared; his limbs felt loose and his knees were weak. “I think.”

“What was that all about?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted truthfully, noticing as the staring strangers averted their gazes and walked away. “I think my knees gave out, is all.”

“I don’t think it’s normal for people to scream out in pain when their knees give out,” Arthur remarked with a deathly serious tone, tightening his grip around Merlin’s arm as he tried to walk. Even walking felt strange; his lack of energy made each step heavier than a sack of bricks.

He certainly did not recall screaming. The entire ordeal had happened so fast, he hadn’t the time to register a single action of his own. Arthur did not let go of his arm; there was an apprehension that emanated from his body that Merlin could feel, as though he was afraid to let him go. As though letting him go would send him tumbling down a dark abyss, never to be seen again.

“You can unhand me, now,” Merlin insisted, staring at the anxious man beside him, suddenly conscious of the looks the two were getting from those who passed by. “I promise, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Arthur insisted, slackening his fingers ever so slightly. “What I saw was far from fine.”

“I just…” Merlin struggled to find the right lie to explain what had just happened to him. There was no feasible explanation that could let him off the hook. There was absolutely nothing that came to mind. Arthur was quick to notice the hesitance upon his features.

“It _is_ something, isn’t it?” He claimed, stopping in his tracks and spinning Merlin around by the shoulders to look him in the eye. He looked furious. “There _is_ something going on, isn’t there? You’re not telling me everything, are you?”

People were stopping to stare, now. Merlin swallowed with difficulty.

“This is not the place,” he whispered anxiously, desperate to move out of the public eye. “Not in public.”

Arthur stared at Merlin for several more moments, his jaw clenched and his lips pressed into a taut, thin line. His eyes were narrowed and highly suspicious, making Merlin feel very uncomfortable underneath his gaze. Finally, however, Arthur turned around, releasing him from his grasp and striding ahead. Which would’ve been a lot more intense had Arthur known where he was going.

“Wrong way,” Merlin pointed out innocently, motioning toward the correct direction across the road and back to his flat. Arthur stopped in his tracks and spun around slowly, his brows furrowed deeply with an acute expression of having been betrayed clear upon his face. “We cross the street here. Remember?’

Arthur did not respond; instead, he strode back toward the crossing and began to walk through it, clearly upset. It took Merlin a moment to realize why he, or anyone else waiting by the edge, had not begun to traverse the walk, and why those who waited with him looked very alarmed.

“Arthur!”

Merlin dashed onto the road and grabbed Arthur from behind, wrenching his arms around his chest pulling him back just in time before a speeding van could send him flying. Horns flared and angry drivers cursed from every direction as they stumbled backward, which only added to the noisy commotion of the frightened passerby viewing the scene.

Arthur’s torso stiffened beneath Merlin’s arms as he registered what had almost come to pass. Towing him back to the safety of the sidewalk and finally letting him go, Merlin exhaled sharply, feeling a pain in his chest as his heartbeat struggled to correct itself. He stared at Arthur with wide eyes, recognizing the shock that had frozen his features.

“That was…” Merlin began weakly, ignoring the concerned pedestrians who tentatively stood by, mobiles at the ready. “That was close.”

“I don’t… understand…” Arthur’s face was rigid as he stared at the road before them. “How… how can anything travel that fast?”

“You think that was fast?” Merlin chuckled humourlessly, his throat dry and his chest constricted with the effort to breath evenly. “That’s not even half of what most cars can do.”

“That’s… unsettling, to say the least…” He shifted uncomfortably where he stood, looking on strangely toward the people who were situated nearby, staring at the two. “You saved my life. Again.”

“You’re an idiot,” Merlin sighed, tugging on Arthur’s arm and pulling him through the crosswalk, which was now safe to cross. “I told you. Not even five hours ago. You can’t just walk across the damn road! That’s just… that’s just common sense!”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur muttered, sounding crestfallen.

“Don’t be sorry,” Merlin responded, immediately guilty, as always. As soon as they had safely made it onto the other side, he let go, swallowing hard. “I can’t do this alone, y’know. Getting you through the twenty-first century. I know it’s hard, but you have got to try harder, Arthur. It’s hard to help you when you won’t try hard enough to help yourself.”

“You think I’m not trying hard enough?” Arthur retorted, his voice bitter and forced. Merlin immediately regretted what he had just said. “You think waking up in some… some foreign land entirely unfamiliar to you is easy? Where nothing makes sense and everyone you have ever loved is de-”

“Arthur! I understand, I never said-”

A hand violently grabbed at Merlin’s shoulder and yanked him around, forcing his face to look directly at Arthur’s yet again. He swallowed.

“I don’t think you understand!” Arthur uttered through gritted teeth, glaring directly into his eyes. “No, I really don’t think you can even begin to comprehend the situation I have been forced into, Merlin!”

“Not here,” Merlin whispered weakly, his mouth trembling. “Please. Not here-”

“Imagine waking up,” he continued with a deadly serious tone, his eyes boring into ever fibre of Merlin’s being. “Imagine waking up one day and finding out that your life has been torn from underneath you. Imagine waking up to find out that everyone you have ever loved, everything to which you have dedicated your entire life… gone. Completely. Utterly. Gone. Now tell me, Merlin, can you guess as to how that might feel?”

Merlin struggled to push back the lump that had painfully lodged in his throat. He knew how it felt. He understood. He understood, completely. To the point in which he experienced precisely what Arthur had just described every single day of his life for the past one thousand, four hundred and seventy-four years, two hundred and thirty-six days, twelve hours, twenty-two minutes, forty-one seconds, forty-two seconds, forty-three seconds, forty-four…

It became difficult for Merlin to look back at Arthur clearly; his eyes brimmed thickly of tears.

“Not here. Please.”

Arthur did not respond. His expression had softened significantly upon hearing his pleading, broken voice. The anger in his eyes melted into sorrow. Without another word, Merlin turned slowly and continued down the street toward the apartment building, thankfully within view. Arthur followed in his wake, equally as wordless and very much lost in his own thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in update from last week; I've been so incredibly busy with school work, I've been unable to write as much as I would've liked. But, here's a relatively long chapter to make up for that. There is a possibility that another delay may come up until the next chapter, but I'm leaning on a regular update.
> 
> I still need to clean up this chapter incase there are any little errors I misssed but I'm sort of in a hurry; ignore any mistakes you see for now. ;w;
> 
> Next chapter is going to be pretty big. A familiar face you thought you'd never see again will be back, as well as a lot of more pain endured by Merlin. Wooooo. So, even if there is a delay, it'll hopefully be worth the wait.


	9. Sorrows of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a bitter exchange between Merlin and Arthur earlier that day, the two men part for the night with their relationship strained. The weight of it all threatens to crush Merlin; to make matters even more complicated, he is met with an unfamiliar voice calling his name.

They did not go food shopping that day. In fact, barely a word was spoken between the two men throughout the rest of it, and it was with a very quiet “good night” uttered from Arthur as he slipped away into the bedroom that it came to a solemn close. As Merlin curled into his sofa that night and drew his battered old blanket over his chest, his mind was threatening to burst with the course of events that had occurred that day. The chilling announcement that had resounded in his head fought valiantly against Arthur’s angry words, each side trying desperately to occupy Merlin’s attention.

_He has returned._

_Yeah, I know._

_I don’t think you understand!_

_Trust me, I do._

_Albion will fall._

_Wonderful._

_Completely. Utterly. Gone._

_Yep._

Merlin sighed painfully, pulling the blanket over his head in a pathetic attempt to shield his mind from his quarrelsome thoughts. Without much faith, he wished for sleep. He just wanted to drift off and not give a damn about anything or anyone-

_Emrys._

His eyes flickered open. That was not the otherworldly voice of an unknown entity he had heard earlier that day. Nor was it the voice of Arthur Pendragon yelling at him with a voice tinged in bitterness and grief. This was the deep voice of a woman, thick with age and resounding with astuteness. It was rich and drew out each syllable of his true name, calling for him as though right beside his ears.

_Emrys, I know you can hear my voice._

Merlin shot up, sending his blanket tumbling from his legs.

_…Who… are you?_

_You know who I am._

_…You must have me mistak-_

_Listen to me, Emrys. There is an abandoned garage on the outskirts of this town. Travel to the Tesco down your street and enter the alley on the right of the building. Keep moving past each left turn in the back alleyways and down the road to which it yields._

_Why are you telling me thi-_

_You will find yourself surrounded by a string of derelict buildings; do not be alarmed by what you find. The final building by the edge of the trees is the garage. This is where you will find me. By the hurried foot, the journey should take you a solid twenty minutes. That is, if you heed my directions. Be discreet, be quick, and do not let a single soul spot you._

_I don’t even know who you are-_

_You will know who I am when you see me. Now hurry. Others may be listening._

_Others? Wait a damn moment-_

_Do not bring Arthur._

_I wasn’t going to! Tell me, who are yo-_

_Go now, Emrys. With haste._

_Hey! Tell me who the hell you are, right now!_

There was a silence that plunged through Merlin’s head that immediately let him know that he was, once again, alone with his thoughts. Thoughts that he struggled to register.

Merlin was sure he had never heard that voice in his life. Yet, he trusted it. He trusted it despite himself, and he was not sure why. It had been an inconceivably long amount of time since he had last been addressed with _that_ name. Swallowing hard, he got to his feet and checked for Arthur’s snores. After a few moments of a silence so deep that he could all but hear the blood trickle through the valves of his heart, the familiar snores rose gently from the bedroom door. Thankfully, Arthur was asleep.

It was difficult to maneuver through the pitch darkness, but Merlin was able to clumsily pull a sweatshirt over his head and shove his trainers onto his feet with the same grace and poise of a lumberjack trying to pirouette. Grabbing his crimson scarf and wrapping it tightly around his neck, Merlin stepped out the door, shutting it as cautiously as possible behind him. He would be quick about this. Whatever it was that this… er, this voice wanted him to do.

Well, if this was a trap, Merlin was ready.

Okay, that was not entirely true. He had not used his magic to defend himself in over four hundred years. He had no clue as to the shape his battle skills were in. As Merlin waited for the rickety lift to hit the first floor, he began to doubt himself. Maybe this was a trap. Maybe he was being too stupid to consider that all the facts of recent events were pointing to a darkness that he could not even begin to comprehend.

The fact of the matter was that Merlin did not care if he was walking straight toward his death. An _actual_ death. Not another dagger shoved into his chest in a half-hearted attempt to see if his heart would finally stop beating. Not another jump from the top of a hospital, only to land upon the pavement with blood pooling beneath his head, though still breathing, much to his disappointment. In truth, the prospect of a successful death seemed to excite him more than it should have.

This was a win-win situation for him, Merlin thought as he stepped outside into the chilly night air. He was immediately enveloped in darkness; instantly regretting his decision to leave behind a torch, he reluctantly muttered a few words and his eyes flashed gold, a little ball of fire forming within his palm. It illuminated very little of the area around him. But it was still a comforting source of warmth, nonetheless.

This town was a notoriously quiet one, especially during the middle of the week. Many tucked in for the night at relatively early hours; some wild, rebellious souls would venture to stay up an hour to midnight. Quite daring, were they. Yes, the citizens of this small town were very prim and proper – precisely everything that Merlin was not.

On this night, not a single soul inhabited the outdoor vicinity. Well, besides the homeless man slumped in slumber against the brick wall two buildings away. Merlin could almost smell the alcohol that wafted from where the man slept; his throat was dry and thirsty for a swig of something that could push reality from his mind for but a few moments. Making a mental note to stop by a liquor store as soon as possible (presuming he survives whatever ordeal is awaiting him at the garage), Merlin walked toward the Tesco the voice mentioned. It looked somewhat ghastly in the middle of the night, pitch dark and excruciatingly empty. That store was almost never this vacant. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little unnerved by the emptiness that radiated from the large building. Even at two in the morning.

As per the directions uttered from the unknown voice within his head, Merlin turned into the alleyway. With a nod and another quick flash of gold in his irises, the fire in his palm grew larger, illuminating the thin path that made him feel significantly claustrophobic in the chilly darkness. The silence was unnerving; the distant hoot of an owl did little to ease his mind as he traveled deeper into the unknown. After what felt like an eternity, the walls enveloping him disappeared, and Merlin stepped out onto the cracked pavement of a road he had never seen before in his entire life.

It was precisely the kind of setting you would see in a horror film. Every structure he could dimly see in the darkness was in shambles; the wood of the shacks were rotted and entwined with vines and shrubbery slithering through each hole and crack. Every roof had either collapsed in or looked very close to doing so. Walls of stone and brick had crumbled into heaps. Anything that was still standing looked to be on the verge of collapse. It was spooky, to say the very least.

Merlin swallowed. Whoever was waiting for him had picked the most unsettling of places to meet. The cold air, the utter silence, and the abandoned array of buildings sent shivers up his spine. He struggled to take another step. There seemed to be only darkness at the end of this path.

But the voice had told him not to be troubled by what he saw. Quite frankly, that did little to ease Merlin’s nerves. With a sharp intake of breath, he began to pace quickly down the unruly pavement that had sprouted with thick weeds throughout the cracks. After having come close to tripping several times, he suddenly eyed two dots peering from the solid darkness beyond, glowing a pale, haunting yellow in the distance.

The ball of fire faltered in his palm. Merlin kept walking toward the unknown source of ambiguous light beyond, ignoring his most natural instincts beckoning him to turn away and run for it. He would see this through, whatever it was. Even if it killed him.

Hopefully, whatever it was _would_ kill him.

The intense silence was broken by a sound that Merlin could not immediately identify. It was the sound of a great force working against the wind in swift movements. It was particularly unsettling, as there was no wind blowing through the trees that night.

It was a noise all too familiar for Merlin. From a time he barely remembered. There was no mistaking what it was.

_Do not be alarmed, Emrys._

Merlin swallowed hard, hastening his pace as the vague outline of a particularly derelict and noticeably large building was thrown into view within the darkness. It had to be a garage; surrounding the ruined concrete building were heaps of motor parts and piles of twisted, rusted metal that might have once been some form of automobile. Three large thresholds yielded an even deeper darkness behind the damaged walls that were vaguely identifiable in the black. Two of the garage doors were still standing, though the glass framing the tiny windows was gone and the paint had long chipped off of the rotted, mangled wood. Out of the third opening with the missing door, the two cloudy yellow orbs had grown significantly larger, magnifying with each step he took. It was with a lurch of his heart and shock of disbelief that Merlin was finally able to identify what they were.

They were eyes. Two large, reptilian eyes, very much like two he had seen a thousand, four-hundred, and seventy-four years ago for the very last time. Only these were paler and much more hazy. He automatically knew they were different; because, if there was one thing about Kilgharrah’s appearance that Merlin would never once forget, it was his piercing golden eyes that had watched him grow from an innocent young boy to a hardened young man throughout his years in Camelot.

These were the eyes of a dragon. A dragon that, for the longest time, Merlin had all but forgotten about. A dragon that Merlin had presumed to be dead for over a millennia.

“I know who you are,” Merlin began, his throat dry and his eyes wide with shock. The voice that escaped his lips was smaller than it had ever been. He was now at the mouth of the abandoned garage, peering up at the pair of glowing eyes that looked down upon him from a large silhouette hidden by the black.

“Aithusa.”

The incredibly large silhouette shifted at the sound of her name. Merlin took several hasty steps backward, coming close to tripping over a root that had grown through a deep crack in the pavement. The fire in his hand increased in size, illuminating the giant creature that was trudging out from the back of the dilapidated building.

“Hello, Emrys.”

Her pearly white scales seemed to glow against the darkness of the night; Merlin did not require the use of the fire in his hand to see her. She had grown immensely since he had last seen her at Camlann; the last memory he had of this dragon had been long lost to his recollection until that moment. It was with the wind knocked out of his stomach that Merlin was hit with the memory of standing above the cliff, warding the young, diminutive dragon away with his booming voice, uttering the words of a language that had come naturally to him as the Dragonlord. He had single-handedly saved Arthur and his men from the fire that had been building up in her throat upon Morgana’s orders; he remembered the pale smoke that had risen from the dragon’s broad nostrils as she prepared to attack, only to be sent away with a shriek of defiance at the sound of Merlin’s command.

And now, here she was again, over a millennia later, looking much more like Kilgharrah than the Aithusa he had known. Merlin could not believe his eyes. A dragon, a real dragon, alive. In front of him. Especially this one, in particular. He never thought he’d see the day.

“How…” Merlin whispered as he registered the majestic creature before him, his very own magical kin, as she stretched her pale wings, illuminated by the ethereal glow of the moon above. “How… are you…”

“Alive?” Her deep voice was crystal clear and rich, filling his ears and flooding his mind with the sound. “Have you forgotten the lifespan of my kind?”

“Where have you… where have you been all these years? Why are you… why now?”

“I have been where I have been,” She replied smoothly, crouching to stare directly at Merlin with her pale yellow eyes. “Where were you? You never called for me.”

It was true. Merlin hadn’t called for Aithusa. Ever. He believed she, along with the only other member of her kind left at the time, had been long dead. That the line of magical beasts that had once ignited the deepest fear within humankind was finally extinct. Only once more had he called for Kilgharrah after Arthur’s death and their final conversation. Once, after precisely one hundred and twenty-six years. But he called for him with little hope; and it was with the crushing lack of response that Merlin accepted the fact that Kilgharrah had been long dead.

Never once had he thought to call for Aithusa. As far as he was concerned, Aithusa was dead. At least, dead to him. She had sided with Morgana. She had made her choice. She was a name that, for hundreds upon hundreds of years, Merlin had forgotten. A name Merlin had willed himself to forget.

But now, here she was. Staring him down with the corners of her snout lifted into a sly smile that was quite reminiscent of the only other dragon he had known in his life. And suddenly, Merlin was furious.

“You tried to hurt Arthur,” Merlin muttered bitterly, glaring back at the cloudy orbs that glowed brightly in the night. “You worked for Morgana.”

“Talk about holding grudges,” she sneered, rolling her eyes in a very human-like manner that pissed him off even further. “It has been over a thousand years, Emrys. You ought to forgive and forget.”

“Forget the fact that you were a tool in Morgana’s plot to destroy Arthur and take Camelot for herself? I killed her, but she _still_ got what she wanted. Arthur died. From the sword _you_ helped her forge. I bet you were happy.”

“I held no grudge against Arthur Pendragon,” Aithusa growled, leaning onto her front legs. Merlin took several steps backward. “But Morgana was my master, and she loved me fiercely. I will not let you speak ill of her, and I will _never_ forgive you for taking her life.”

“Then avenge her! Kill me!” Merlin shouted coldly, holding out his arms as though prepared to embrace death itself. “Kill me, if that’s what you want. Kill me, if that’s why you’ve lured me here in the first place!”

“I would never do such a thing.”

“Then what is it that you want from me? What on earth bothered you enough to call me out for the first time in, what, fifteen centuries?”

“I want nothing from you, Emrys,” She seethed, staring down Merlin with an intensity that caused him to quiver in his shoes. “It is you who should be asking me for my guidance.”

“Guidance?” Merlin muttered, his voice significantly lower as his arms slowly retracted to his sides. He peered at her with wide eyes, confused. “Guidance for what?”

“Is it not obvious?” She replied, tilting her large, scaly head closer to Merlin’s. “I take it you are at least somewhat privy to recent news?”

“Recent news?” he responded lamely despite knowing, deep down, what she must have been talking about. He stared at the unreadable expression on the dragon’s visage. “Well, Arthur is back, for one thing. But I don’t know why.”

“The prophecy states that when the peace of Albion is threatened-”

“Arthur will rise again,” Merlin finished, sighing as he recalled Kilgharrah’s final words to him in his head as clear as day. “Yes, yes. I know.”

“Then, Emrys,” She continued, her profound gaze staring him down below. Merlin gulped. “Can you put two and two together to make four?”

_Albion will fall._

The haunting words replayed in his head. His heartbeat faltered.

“What is it, then?” He inquired in a small, strangled voice. Aithusa did not respond immediately, hesitance clear upon her aged features. “What is the threat?”

“I am afraid that I have very little to offer you as an answer,” She sighed, finally withdrawing her gaze and lifting her head. “But what I am sure of is that sorcery is involved.”

“In London…” Merlin began in a voice barely higher than a whisper. The dimly shining moon above did little to relieve him of the weight of the darkness around him. “That was…”

“Sorcery,” She finished for him, her resounding voice low and grave. “Very old, very dark sorcery. To think that I once believed the Old Religion had been lost to the passing of generations…”

“How do you know about the incident?” Merlin suddenly inquired, recognizing that something was wrong with this picture. “No offense, but how the hell does a _dragon_ find out about something like thi-”

“You are not the only human out there with a functioning brain and access to a television,” She responded flatly, her wings twitching behind her. “And you are not the only human I have contacted in recent times.”

“There are others?”

“Are you always this thickheaded, Emrys? Of course there are!”

Merlin was not thickheaded; he was simply a little too hopeful that there were not.

“Are you in league with whoever murdered those people?” Merlin suddenly accused, his body tensing instinctively. “Don’t lie to me. I’ll know.”

“You stupid boy!” Aithusa reared to her hind legs, flexing her wings aggressively. The numerous scars upon her scaly hide were dimly thrown into view; Merlin hastened to step backward. “How dare you accuse me of aligning with such a heinous act!”

“I dunno. It wouldn’t be _that_ outlandish an accusation, considering the hell you have willingly wrought in the past for Morga-”

“SILENCE!” Aithusa roared, fire escaping from the corners of her snout and sending Merlin back several feet by the sudden rush of heat. Flurries of birds escaped from the trees surrounding the abandoned road, disappearing in the night sky above. Her voice echoed through the still air, sending shivers down Merlin’s spine. “You insolent fool! I am bound to you! I am bound to help you, and here you are, talking back to me as though I am no more than a weak slave tied to chains beneath your feet! Do not forget what I am, Emrys. Do not _dare_ forget.”

Merlin stared at Aithusa with burning hatred running through his veins. He detested this creature. He detested her for the bitter memories that she brought back. He detested her for having chosen the dark side once before, and he detested her for not knowing if she’d make the same choice again. Yet, he could not bring himself to utter a single word in the language shared between their souls; he could not bring himself to put her down to bow before him. The broad array of scars marring the white scales of her hide was painstakingly prominent. The sadness and grief in her hazy eyes mirrored that of his own. He could not do it.

“…I’m sorry.”

“Go,” Aithusa muttered in response, her broad nostrils flaring and her cloudy eyes narrowed. She stretched her wings out and began to flail them behind her, preparing to fly. The sound was all too familiar for Merlin. “Dawn will be upon us soon. I cannot risk the interception of others. I have disturbed the silence enough as it is.”

“But I need you to tell me what you know!”

“I will contact you in the nights to come. Communicating with you through magic is too risky to maintain for long. But when I do, it will be brief, and we shall meet in this location again unless I tell you otherwise,” She began to turn, her thick, scaly tail whipping within inches of Merlin’s face. He stumbled to the ground as he dodged it.

“Wait! Tell me something! Anything, dammit!”

“There is a darkness that has been growing beneath our knowledge for what I can only guess to be many, many years,” Aithusa responded vaguely, lifting off the ground. “But only now are they making their move. That is what must’ve roused Arthur Pendragon from the dead. I am keen on finding out what I can, but I am absolutely sure of one thing. Whoever it is knows he is back, now. We all do. The prophecy has been announced – I’m sure you’ve heard it, yourself?”

“Yes… I think I have.”

“And, while I have yet to discover an incentive, I am positive that Arthur is in grave danger.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin gasped, his eyes watering from the wind stirred by Aithusa’s broad, flapping wings. His heart had dropped into his stomach. “What do they want with hi-”

“Worry not, Emrys! You must think about it logically, for it has been well over a thousand years since anyone but you has seen his face! Let us try to keep it that way, for as long as he cannot be identified, he cannot be found!”

“Is that _all_ you can tell me? Truly? Or must I command you to tell me more?”

“I would not lie to you!” Aithusa responded from above, her deep voice growing more and more distant with each resounding flap of her wings. “But be warned, Emrys. You may be the most powerful wizard to have ever lived, but this is the twenty-first century. Arthur Pendragon does not have an army of knights under his command. You are all he has, and you must not fail him. For if they catch even the slightest wind of his whereabouts…”

Aithusa disappeared into the night sky above, the sound of her voice escaping with her. All Merlin could hear was the fading sound of her wings working against the night air, but that, too, was silenced moments later. Once again, he was alone with himself and with his thoughts. He could finish her sentence on his own.

 _…Then we’re all fucked_.

Rooted to the decaying ground over which he stood, Merlin could not move. He wanted to punch himself repeatedly for having offended the dragon as he had. This was the first dragon he had seen in over a thousand, four hundred years; this wasn’t any CGI animation from fantasy flicks he would catch every now and then for kicks. No storybook illustration, no artistic rendition of the “mythical” beast from legend and lore. This was a real dragon, a full-grown one; one that he had known from his heavy past. Morgana’s strongest weapon. A direct connection to Morgana. Morgana Pendragon.

And, suddenly, Morgana’s face appeared before Merlin’s eyes for the first time in hundreds of years.

This was not the face of the cold, calculating, and callous Morgana whose memory was all that Merlin remembered of her. This was the face of a young woman with pretty features and wide, hopeful eyes with irises the shade of an icy blue. The dark hair that framed her lovely face was neatly pulled back, though several raven locks fell gracefully over her shoulder. There was a smile playing at her rosy lips. She was happy. She looked pure.

This was the face of the Morgana he had known from his earliest days in Camelot. The Morgana that was his friend. This was the Morgana that Arthur spoke so fondly of earlier that day with sorrow saturated in his voice.

And then, the face changed. The pretty features paled and grew sallow. The skin stretching over her cheekbones and clenched jaw thinned. Her hair became stringy and unkempt, falling wildly around her ashen head. The wide blue eyes sunk; they lost the twinkle of hope that had formerly been the most prominent feature of her once beautiful face.

This was the Morgana that Merlin hated. The Morgana who had lost the beauty within her heart, the Morgana who had been consumed by her thirst for power, the Morgana who had been destroyed by her vengeance. This was the Morgana that wanted Arthur dead.

Everything went black.

_“I blame myself for what you’ve become.”_

When he opened his eyes, he was situated beneath the dark trees of the forest on the outskirts of Avalon’s lake. He could smell the earthy smell of the mossy, wet underbrush. His clothes were damp and musty, sticking to the skin they covered. The pain of having been thrown by magic a short time ago was still fresh within his aching limbs. Crouching, he had Arthur’s sword was in his grasp, pointing at the broken, disheveled figure that was Morgana a short distance away from him. She was staring at him with wild and dreadfully empty eyes. A malicious grin was stretched upon her lips.

 _“… But this has to end,”_ Merlin continued, bringing the sword an inch closer to her chest.

 _“I’m a high priestess,”_ she responded matter-of-factly with a grim voice, her dirtied chin rising ever so slightly. _“No mortal blade can kill me.”_

A moment later, Merlin pushed the sword through Morgana’s chest, feeling it break through skin and bone and the sinew of her heart. It sent a chill through his arm. Her cold eyes widened in shock; her mouth gaped, breathless. He did not flinch as she grasped his shoulder in retaliation, staring at him with alarm in her eyes.

 _“This is no mortal blade,”_ he explained, brushing off the penetrating gaze that tore into his eyes. _“Like yours, it was forged in a dragon’s breath.”_

With another push, the sword was driven deeper into her chest and out of her back, ripping through her spine and out the other side of the dark fabric of her dress.

He held her as she collapsed upon the ground, falling onto the soil below. Merlin saw the breath escape her lips in pained gasps, heaving until her eyes lost focus and stared out into the dark canopy above, illuminated by the moon that shone through the cracks between the leaves.

He pulled out the sword. The final desperate draws of breath were quickly quieted. The glassy, sunken eyes were frozen in despair.

_“Goodbye, Morgana.”_

Merlin turned to see Arthur staring from a short distance away, leaning painfully against the trunk of a fallen, mossy tree. His pallid face was shining with perspiration as he looked on with an expression that Merlin could not identify. It was an expression that made him incredibly nervous. He ran to his side, dropping the sword onto the ground with a sharp _clang_.

As he threw his arms around his shoulders to pull him upward, Merlin did not look at Arthur. He was afraid. But what he did not see was that Arthur’s eyes that had fixated upon him, staring at him with a fondness that transcended spoken words of gratitude and affection.

A moment later, Merlin turned his head and finally saw it; Arthur’s fading blue eyes staring directly at him, a profoundly beautiful yet small smile on his lips despite the pain and exhaustion etched on the rest of his features. Merlin’s heart faltered in his chest.

 _“You’ve brought peace at last,”_ Arthur murmured, his voice thin and broken yet warm and serene, filled with a gratitude that had flooded Merlin’s chest with indescribable heat.

He could not respond. And before he could, everything had gone black yet again.

The very next moment, Merlin found himself facing an empty, run-down garage in the darkness. Sweat glistened upon his forehead despite the cold and bitter air that enveloped him. His heart was pounding rapidly and his brain throbbed against his skull. A lump constricted his dry throat.

It took Merlin several long and painfully drawn out moments before he could summon the energy to turn after what he had just experienced. His first several steps were weak; his knees trembled beneath him, threatening to send him onto the cracked pavement below. In his arm he could feel the sensation of stabbing Morgana through the heart that he had just re-experienced but a moment ago; his fingers wrapped around the air as though grasping an invisible hilt.

As if believing it would dispel the unpleasant feeling in his arm, Merlin conjured the small fire in his palm yet again, dimly illuminating the dark and dreary path that lay before him back into the alleyway. He could barely feel the reluctance of his feet as they pulled across the ground. All he could feel was the weight of Morgana in his arms as he pulled her to the earth below their feet. All he could hear was the struggled gasps of breath that came from her mouth as she succumbed to death. All he could see was the beautiful smile on Arthur’s face as he looked deeply into his eyes, an expression that had caught Merlin entirely by surprise.

Why was this happening to him? The last thing Merlin needed now was that particular relapse. Morgana’s face had been lost to him for so long; the sound of her voice, the ice in her eyes. He didn’t need this.

Merlin did not need to remember the pain he felt as Arthur was slowly dying. The memory of his last moments were enough; the recollection of the fact that his death followed that moment only a little while later was completely unwelcome within Merlin’s heart and mind. He did not need this. He did not deserve this kind of pain.

Merlin felt the walls of the alleyway envelop him; he felt them inch closer and closer together, threatening to trap him and crush him beneath their weight. He wouldn’t mind if they had. He’d be okay with it.

He’d be completely okay with it.

By the time he had torn away from his thoughts to register the real world before him, Merlin found himself stepping off the noisy lift and heading toward the pale blue door of his flat. He was suddenly aware of the fact that the ball of fire was still burning brightly in his palm. Dispelling it quickly and hoping that no one had been outside or in the lobby at this time of night to catch a glimpse, he hastened to the door.

Merlin was anxious; he prayed that Arthur had not awoken in his absence. Shutting the door behind him as gingerly as possible, he froze, listening closely for the familiar snore that lay beyond the bedroom door.

There it was. Closing his eyes and sighing in relief, he headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. Aithusa’s looming words, Morgana’s face, and Arthur’s smile ate away at him. He leaned against the counter for support as he struggled to swallow the lukewarm water. He was tired and confused; there was nothing in this world that he wanted more than dreamless, thoughtless sleep, if only for a few hours. The flickering digital clock a distance away read 3:31 AM. The sunken old couch never looked more inviting.

After putting his glass in the sink, however, Merlin did not move toward it. Instead, he moved toward the bedroom door. He needed to see Arthur; he needed to see that Arthur was safe and tucked beneath the sheets on the old, creaking mattress that once belonged to him. He wanted to make sure that the darkness Aithusa had warned of had not swept him away already. He had to be sure that the light snores he had heard were not figments of his desperate imagination.

As he gently opened the door and slipped in, Merlin was immediately relieved to see Arthur fast asleep, his chest rising and falling gently in the serene silence. Merlin’s chest flooded with warmth as he looked on; the slumbering figure looked to be at peace.

Despite his exhausted mind telling him to turn around, slip out the door, and go to sleep, Merlin walked to his desk and pulled up his small chair, turning it around to face the bed and sitting down upon it. His eyelids were heavy with the need for rest, but he ignored the feeling. He did not want to leave Arthur. No, not again.

Arthur was no longer snoring, but the rhythmic succession of each inhale and exhale was just as relaxing to Merlin; it was a soothing and pleasant sound. The pain of loss and confusion that was etched onto his face while awake had disappeared completely in his slumber. Under the refuge of sleep, Arthur looked content, as though in his own bed within his chambers in Camelot. The grief within Merlin’s heart deepened.

“I’m sorry I could not save you,” Merlin began tentatively in a whisper despite himself, struggling to breathe with a lump rising in his throat. “I’m sorry you’re stuck here in this horrible world that you’ve never known. I’m… I’m sorry you’re stuck here feeling so lost and so alone and that… and that, out of all the people you’d love to be with right now, more than anyone else, you’re stuck here with… with me. And I’m so, _so_ sorry I couldn’t save you. To save you from all this.”

Arthur did not stir. Merlin stared on as the even breaths matched the rise and fall of his broad chest.

“I’m sorry you’ve been damned to live a life you don’t want to live. I’m sorry you’ve been thrown into a mess you want no part of. I’m sorry that you’re unhappy. I wish, more than anything, that I could fix it. I wish, more than anything, for you to be happy again.”

Merlin could not stifle the words that flowed directly from his heart and out of his mouth; he could not control the sorrow he expressed through his whispers. Arthur was asleep and could not hear him. But Merlin could not help but speak anyway. He could not help it.

“I’d die a thousand times, over and over and over again, in the most painful and brutal ways you could think of. Just so you could be happy again. If that’s what it took, I’d die in a heartbeat. A thousand times. Two thousand times. However many damn times it’d take. I swear.”

Merlin stared at Arthur with tears falling freely from his eyes. Still, he had not stirred, and for that, Merlin was grateful.

“The life I had serving you was the only life I’d ever known,” he continued, his whispers strangled with grief. “And then you were gone. And so was the life I knew. And I was just as lost as you are now.”

Merlin’s instincts were telling him that it was enough, that he said enough, and that it was time for him to go to bed on that old couch just outside the bedroom. But he ignored them.

“I think I know how Prometheus feels,” he chuckled quietly, despite himself. It was a humourless and miserable sound. “You wouldn’t know who he is, I think. He came before your time, from a civilization far from our country. He’s a Greek god, a poor bloke who was cursed. You see, he’s not allowed to die. Instead, he’s chained up to a cliff in some godforsaken land and ravaged by vultures. Each and every day. For eternity.”

Merlin sighed, closing his eyes. He did not care what he said. Arthur was fast asleep, blissfully unaware.

“…You’d think the pain would get dull after a thousand years. You’d think a man would get used to it after some time. Y’know, each night, I’d go to sleep thinking that, alright, I was ready. I was prepared to face the next morning. I thought I’d be strong enough to fight it off. I’ve been through it a million times. It won’t hurt me this time, I’d think to myself. I’d be okay.”

The sound of a passing car outside broke the silence for a short moment. Merlin drew a deep breath.

“But I’d wake up the next day, and the vultures would come back. And they’d crush me beneath their damn wings and run me through with their stupid talons and the pain would overwhelm me all over again. And I could do nothing about it. Because I’m weak.”

Merlin wiped his eyes with the end of his sleeve.

“Arthur, I am a lot weaker than you think.”

The moon that peered weakly through the tiny window near the bed illuminated Arthur’s face. It was an ethereal sight to behold.

“I don’t know where I’m going with all this. But that’s okay. Because you’re fast asleep, and for all I know, you’re dreaming about Camelot. Something happy, I hope. And I’m glad. I know you can’t hear me, but, I guess what I’m trying to say is… I know. I know how you must feel, because I know what it’s like to lose everything that gave your life meaning. In losing you, I… I lost myself. I’ve been living with that pain for the past one thousand, four hundred, and seventy-four years. Give or take a couple months.”

Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. After reluctantly rising to his feet, Merlin stepped quietly to the bedroom door, casting one more glance at Arthur.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he sighed, another tear falling from the corner of his eye and rolling down his cheek. “And for what it’s worth, I promise I won’t fail you. I won’t fail you ever again.”

What Merlin did not know, however, was that Arthur’s eyes had flickered open as soon as the door was quietly shut behind him. They peered over the dark doorway for several drawn out moments to make sure of his exit.

“I know you won’t,” Arthur whispered with a heavy sigh, slowly sitting up and gazing thoughtfully at the tarnished knob where Merlin’s hand had just been. The silence brought forth by his departure sank through Arthur’s skin, enveloping him in a solemnity that reflected upon his troubled expression. “Because you never have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, an old face is back. Aithusa's own intentions are presently unknown; that includes whether or not these intentions lie in or out of Merlin's favour. We'll see. (I hope this chapter might've made you cry. At least a little.)
> 
> (Also, I've always believed Aithusa is female even though her gender is up for debate. I'm going with what Katie Mcgrath says, herself. She believes Aithusa's a she, and so do I.)
> 
> There will not be a big update next week due to a busy schedule keeping me from writing as much as I want to, yet again. There will definitely be another small chapter update by next Saturday, however, and it'll be another glimpse at our villains. Woo.
> 
> Again, sorry for the upcoming delay; school is quite literally ripping me apart.


	10. The Darkness, Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With another short glimpse away from Merlin and Arthur, we get a clearer look into the rising threat that Aithusa has warned of.

“The sword, love. Have you found the sword?”

The man reclined upon the old and stained chair, his hand extended to the table with long, slender fingers quietly drumming the ceramic surface. He had his dark brown hair slicked back and tucked neatly behind his ears. The man was clearly heading toward middle age, but his complexion was strikingly smooth and his eyes, a brown so dark it could be mistaken for black, were clear, unclouded, and remarkably youthful. These eyes were staring directly into those of the person to whom he had spoken, his voice calm and collected. It was precisely the kind of voice that acted as a snake, slithering through the ear and wrapping around the brain, suffocating it without mercy.

“Relax,” a reedy, thin voice responded in a pathetic attempt to sound brave. “It’s only been a day since we’ve heard it. We don’t even know where _he_ is, let alone what he looks like. The sword will do us no good until we know what we’re looking for. Besides, you can’t expect for something that’s been lost for over a thousand years to be found within a day’s notice!”

The voice belonged to a small young woman with blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, framing a rather large forehead on a face with features that could only be described as very thin and very sharp. She was clearly intimidated by the man before her, looking at his collected countenance with her gray eyes opened wide and her small lips trembling as she spoke.

“They say Rome was built in a day,” the man in the chair chimed, gesturing for the woman to take the opposite seat of the table. “I implore you to join me for a cup, my lady.”

“I don’t think I’ve got the time-”

“Please.”

The woman bit her lip as she assessed the pros and cons of joining the man for a cup of cheap coffee. The small café was loud and overcrowded with “trendy” young teenagers and university students; both she and the man looked dreadfully out of place with their professional looks and stiff suits. He had already purchased a cup for her, it seemed, as a second sat upon the table with a packet of sugar leaning against its side. This sent a chill down her spine.

“Of course,” she responded weakly, taking a seat. The man stared at her with those chilling, clear eyes, as though waiting for something. Of what, she was not sure.

“So,” The man began quietly after taking a long sip of his drink. “Tell me more.”

“About what?”

“About the sword, dear. What else do you think I’m talking about?”

“Um, well…” Her voice was thinner than ever, barely audible in the din of young folk chatting idly to one another over cappuccinos and lattes and whatever the hell else they were calling them these days. “We don’t even know if it exists, let alone where it is.”

“It exists,” The man responded forcefully, his lips taut with his smile disappearing completely. “I know it does.”

“Then we will keep looking,” The young woman responded, biting her lip. “But I can’t guarantee how long that will take. It could be anywhere. It could’ve been destroyed, for all we know. I can’t imagine a sword _that_ old could still be in one piece. Shattered, disassembled, melted-”

“A blade forged in dragon’s breath cannot be destroyed,” The man stated, throwing a severe glare into her direction. She swallowed. “It’s out there. Somewhere. And we _will_ find it.”

“I’m sure we will, sir.”

“Good. I’m not particularly fond of disappointment.”

The threat in his words made the woman uneasy. She slowly reached out for the cup and brought it to her mouth, pretending to take a sip as the hot liquid splashed against her pursed lips.

“Coffee tastes substantially better when you’re actually drinking it,” the man mused with a smile, much to the woman’s uncomfortable surprise.

“I’m not a fan of coffee,” she replied weakly, attempting to smile as she set the cup down. “I’m more of a tea person.”

“Forgive me,” He apologized, his voice disgustingly sweet. “I’ll make note of that for our next meeting.”

“Speaking of which,” The woman began, gathering strength within her voice. “I’m a very busy woman, as you know. Is there any other reason why you’ve asked for me today?”

“Yes,” He responded quietly, pulling his leather briefcase to the tabletop. The woman’s nerves stood on edge. “There is.”

“The prophecy?” She inquired, relieved to see a harmless laptop pulled from the case. “What we’ve all heard, I presume?”

“You’ve presumed correctly,” he responded, smiling as he waved a lazy finger, his dark eyes flashing gold. The laptop pulled open at once.

“Is it really wise to do that in public?”

“Why not?” The man responded bitterly, rolling his eyes. “They ought to get used to it. It’s only a matter of time.”

“I d-don’t think we should be causing any alarm this early-”

“Says the woman whose team of blithering idiots massacred one of the busiest banks in central London,” he whispered, grinning maliciously. “I would’ve liked to think that you, of all my most trusted friends, could take control of her subordinates with a little more care.”

“They… they’ve only just discovered their abilities,” she stammered, her heart sinking in her chest. “You can’t expect it to be executed cleanly-”

“Magic still runs through the veins of millions around the world,” The man interrupted, his voice low and deathly serious. “Millions. Almost all remains untapped. Undiscovered. Unknown.”

“I know, but-”

“And what will the world be like once we’ve tapped this magic? When it’s finally discovered? When it’s known? Who will be in control, then?”

“We will-”

“We will bring back the sheer force of sorcery into this world, and we will create a formidable force to make sure of that goal. In order to do so, we must open the eyes of these millions of our dormant kin from every corner of this earth. Do you know what kind of power that entails?

“I’m aware-”

“If we do not assert our power now – this early on and in our very own country to begin with – there will be chaos. Complete and utter chaos, love. What your team did was an example of that.”

“…I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“As I am sure it won’t. I trust you, Vivian. I trust in your decisions. You _will_ make your ancestors proud. The nobility that runs through your blood isn’t forgotten. You were born a leader, from the start.”

“Right,” She responded bleakly, recalling the weight on her shoulders. “So, what was it you wanted to show me?”

“You recall the voice that uttered the prophecy?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, we have reason to believe that we have found the owner of the voice,” the man chimed quietly behind the screen of the laptop. Vivian could not see what was being typed; it made her increasingly nervous. “I believe we’ve found our seer.”

“Come on. The voice could’ve belonged to _anyone_. How can we be sure-”

“The ignorance of school bullies, the stupidity of the media, and the beauty of the internet.”

“I don’t think I follow.”

“Put yourself in the place of a teenage troublemaker. You’ve got a mobile in your hand, as does every other child in your generation. Some poor chap in your class is having an episode. Be it an angry outburst, an embarrassing accident, a juvenile fight. What is your first instinct?”

“I don’t know. I was privately educated at home… and I was a good kid.”

“God, you bore me.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“Your goal is to make the life of your victim a living hell,” he continued, grinning slightly at the half-confused, half-offended expression on Vivian’s face. “Some kid has a bizarre episode, and you’ve got a mobile. Turn on your camera, press record, and you’ve got some laughs to share. What you don’t know is that you’ve just recorded some very incriminating evidence.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“Look,” The man muttered exasperatedly, twisting around the screen. He had propped open YouTube, and the buffering video was that of a classroom. Vivian’s thin brows furrowed.

“I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

“It is in today’s list of ‘top viral videos’, according to The Guardian. And, lo and behold, one of our friends happened to stumble upon it.”

Vivian’s eyes narrowed as she stared into the bright screen. The video began to play. What she saw was a shaky, poor recording of a nerdy looking lad convulsing in his chair from across a small classroom. What children found funny in this poor boy suffering in his seat, Vivian did not know.

“What-”

“Shh,” he whispered, his handsome face screwed up in concentration as he stared at her expression. “Keep watching.”

The boy looked fit to burst. Just as Vivian was sure his head would explode, he started screaming.

“ _HE HAS RETURNED. ARTHUR PENDRAGON HAS RETURNED. THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING HAS RISEN, ONCE AGAIN.”_

Shocked, the woman flinched enough to send her dangerously close to falling out of her seat. Which is exactly what the boy in the video did a moment later. The camera shook particularly worse to the mixed sounds of shocked squeals and muffled laughter before blacking out. The video finished. Vivian stared, wide-eyed.

“I think we’ve found our seer, my dear.”

“Do… do we know who he is?”

“Huail has done his research. Apparently, his name is Galahad Clarke, and that video was taken in Leicester.”

“I’m assuming we’ll be paying this young man a visit?”

“You’ve assumed correctly. But, my dear, think about it. You know how seers work. They see what they prophesize. They can project it with no more than a touch. Do you know what this means?”

A few moments later, two and two became four within Vivian’s mind. She smiled in delight, excited at the revelations. It was as though her initial hatred for the man had vanished into thin air.

“Arthur Pendragon!” she giggled despite herself, grabbing the man’s hands from across the table and squeezing them tightly. “The _real_ King Arthur! His face! His everything! We’ll finally know who he is!”

“We _will_ find him,” the man mused, flashing his bright white teeth from behind his thin lips curved into a smile. “And we _will_ kill him.”

“And wherever the king will be…”

“…His wizard will be by his side. We’ll find Emrys. And he _will_ join our cause.”

“Whether he likes it or not.”

“And, when we find the sword of Sir Mordred...”

“We’ll have the leverage we need.”

“Precisely.”

“To think, generation upon generation of our families have been searching for so very, _very_ long…”

“It is up to us to fulfill the legacy,” He announced with pride, shutting the laptop with a nod of his head. “It is our time, now.”

“This might actually work, old man.”

“I’ll ignore the latter half of what you just said,” the man muttered, rolling his eyes despite the smile twisting his lips. “But it will. With Emrys and his power on our side, we will be unstoppable.”

“And with Arthur dead once more, nothing will stand in our way.”

“And _they’ll_ pay,” the man stated with hatred burning in his piercing voice, mirrored in his strikingly dark eyes. “They’ll _all_ pay for what they’ve wrought upon our people. Magic will dominate the earth, as it was always meant to do.”

The two smiled at each other, basking in the delightful prospect that their families had fought for throughout many generations. The fact of the matter was that the oaths of their ancestors were not made in vain. The prophecy they had heard the day before had confirmed it. It was not stories stemmed from spite, nor was it lore derived from shame. The tales passed down through the ages, the vendettas sworn to their names and that of their forefathers… It was not just talk. It was not of fiction. Not of silly myth, not of impractical folklore.

The efforts of their lineage had not been made for nothing. And, now, it was up to them to uphold the legacies of their families passed down throughout the generations. Their vows, and that of their ancestors, had finally come to fruition. It was finally time.

A tap on her shoulder from behind suddenly startled Vivian, who, broken from the high of impending victory, turned around, glaring. A large young man’s chubby finger remained on her shoulder, a grin on his face.

“’Scuse me, miss,” he whispered, coyness in his voice. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, and I wanted to know if you’re part of the LT, too?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” She seethed, confused by what he was asking.

“You know. Lorien Trust.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Miss, there’s no need to be ashamed about it. Your and your friend’s secret is safe with me. LARPer’s honour.”

“…What?”

“Live action role-playing?” The man’s brows furrowed in his greasy forehead. “You’re not one of us?”

“Why would I be one of… whatever the hell _you_ are?”

“Playing hard to get, I see,” he chuckled, putting a chubby arm around her shoulder. Vivian cringed. “You’re one of those hardcore gals who takes it to the real world too, eh? I like that. It’s hot.”

“If you don’t take your grubby hand off of me in the next three seconds, I will rip your throat out and shove it up your arse.”

“Come off it, babe. Don’t be so bloody harsh.”

“Three… two…”

“Damn,” The man laughed bitterly, pulling away his hand and frowning at her. “No need to be such a bitch.”

“One.”

Vivian’s eyes twitched, turning gold. The obscene man’s laughter promptly ended and his mouth gaped open in confusion as she lifted her hand and extended it toward him.

“What… are you…”

She twisted her fingers in the air, a deranged smile pulling the corners of her lips. The man screamed out in pain; the din of the café was slowly silenced as heads turned to watch the man writhe in agony, his hands groping at his fat neck. Gurgling and sputtering, his screams were cut short. The tension in Vivian’s arm grew as her magic took hold over the man from within.

With another broken sputter, the man fell to the ground with a loud thud. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling above, frozen in place within their sockets.

Nobody moved. Vivian straightened herself up, brushing at her shoulder where the man’s hand had been. She turned to look at her friend, who sat through the ordeal without a single word uttered, his face composed into a state of complete indifference.

“Can we make an exception?” She inquired calmly, an apologetic smile on her face.

“Just this once,” the man agreed, rising to his feet. With a muffled whisper and a wave of his hand, the curtains of the café swept across the windows. A red glow lined the edges of the door as the sign of its window flipped to read “CLOSED” from the outside. The music blaring in the speakers had gone silent. The machines behind the counter had stopped churning and shuffling. All the lights went out.

Finally, the people began to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We learn the name of one of our big bads - and yes, her name is very, very significant, if you know your Arthurian Legends well enough. But who exactly does her ancestry lead to? Who is her mysterious companion, the man behind the schemes to come? What's his name, dammit!? What's gonna happened to poor Gal? We'll find out. Eventually. At least we've got an idea as to what exactly it is that they want.
> 
> Sorry for the update delay yet again, especially because this is another short chapter. I promise that I'll be updating regularly again with normal-sized, Merlin-Arthur centric updates again from next week and onward until it's time for another short chapter interlude. Hashing out villains is tough, to say the least. I want to get it done right, and at precise moments in the story.
> 
> But yes, the name Vivian (or rather, more commonly spelled in Arthurian Legend as Vivien) is significant. Essentially, every name I choose in this fic is significant. Even the minor mention of a man named Huail that you might've caught in this chapter - yep, important, too. 
> 
> Thanks for the continued support and wonderful feedback you lovely folks are giving me! I appreciate it more than I can put into words. I love you!


	11. The Strength to Forgive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin has struggled with the pain of his past for a long, long time - and Arthur is only just beginning to realize what it has done to him.
> 
> Meanwhile, an unexpected visitor shows up at the door.

“Meeeeerliiiin!”

_Go away._

“Wake up, you… you… what is it that you like to call me?”

_I’m trying to sleep._

“…A dollophead. Yes, that’s it. Wake up, you dollophead!”

_Dammit, Arthur._

Merlin reluctantly opened his eyes to find Arthur smiling above his head. A chord was struck within his heart. He had not heard that insult in ages. Literally. Ages.

“You’re a child,” he groaned as warmth enveloped his chest despite himself, rubbing his eyes as he sat upright. Arthur looked a little too happy this morning, especially after recalling the bitter and angry words they had said the day before. It took Merlin a moment to remember the harsh, tear-filled exchange.

“Stop calling me that,” Arthur muttered, rolling his eyes as he pulled the pillow from under Merlin’s head and threw it at his face. “I do apologize for making sure you wake up in time for your work as any decent friend should do.”

“Work?” Merlin yawned, yanking the pillow off his face and letting it tumble to the ground. He blinked for several moments in disorientation before focusing on the digital clock; it read 10:09 AM. “Damn, I forgot! Work!”

“What’s wrong?”

“My shift started three hours ago!”

“Is… is that bad?”

“Yes,” Merlin slapped himself on the forehead, internally shouting a flurry of curses at himself. “Very bad. Very, very, _very_ bad.”

“So what if you’re a couple hours late?” Arthur inquired innocently as Merlin willed himself to get to his feet. “Surely your employer will not be too mad.”

“Oh, believe me. He will be. There’s no use going in this late, now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Arthur responded quietly, not sounding very sorry at all as he stared at Merlin with an unreadable expression. “I should’ve woken you up earlier.”

“No, no,” Merlin shook his head, slapping himself on the forehead again. “I must’ve forgotten to set my alarm last night. It’s my own fault.”

Silence flooded the small space between them. The stupor of sleep had crawled its way back into Merlin’s head as he struggled to clearly process the events of the preceding night. Something about a white dragon, a young lady who desperately needed a bath, and a sleeping king?

Oh. _Right._

“Right, well,” Merlin coughed nervously as he dragged his feet to the kitchen, recalling the words he had gotten off his chest the night before to a slumbering Arthur. “Breakfast, then?”

“Merlin-”

“There isn’t much,” he continued, ignoring Arthur’s interjection and averting his eyes. There was something strange about the peculiar look the other man was giving him; it ate away at the pit of Merlin’s stomach. “We didn’t really get a chance to grab those groceries, as you, er, must know. I reckon I could make a trip to Tesco in less than an hour-”

“Merlin,” Arthur repeated, his voice excruciatingly severe.

“If you’d prefer, I c-could order some takeout instead-“

“Merlin!”

“-since it’d b-be faster, y’know. I think you’d like curry-”

“Merlin,” Arthur sighed, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “Please.”

Swallowing with immense difficulty, Merlin turned to face him.

“Look,” He began tentatively, looking up at Arthur with sincere and pained eyes. “Arthur, I want to apologize-”

“Stop right there,” Arthur cut him off, placing a warm hand on his bony shoulder. Merlin was surprised. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“Say what?” Merlin questioned, confused. “That I’m sorry?”

“You said it,” Arthur muttered dejectedly as he pulled his arm away, rolling his eyes.

“Why can’t I apologize? Arthur, I shouldn’t have said what I said yesterday. I know how hard you’ve been working and I had no right-”

“Don’t apologize,” Arthur interrupted yet again, though his voice was gentler. “I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

“You can’t be serious. You-”

“I was angry. For no good reason. Compared to what you must have been through over these years, Merlin… I should not have gone off as I did. Because you’re right.”

“…I’m right? About what?”

“You’re right. I have not been trying hard enough. To tell you the truth, I’m still waiting to be awoken from this… this… whatever it is. A dream? A nightmare? I’m not sure I know anymore.”

Merlin stared at Arthur with an ache in his heart that could shake the very foundation of the world. He had never seen him so vulnerable. The urge to reach out to him was unnerving. He wanted to touch him. To touch him and let him know that this – this right here – was real. That he was real.

He was real.

_Wasn’t he?_

The fact of the matter was that Merlin wasn’t sure who needed the confirmation more – Arthur, or himself.

“It’s… it’s okay,” Merlin stuttered, his voice barely higher than a whisper. The grief in Arthur’s eyes struck through his chest. “It’s okay, Arthur. It’s okay.”

“Here I am,” Arthur continued, closing his eyes and breathing deeply from his nose. “Whining like a child about my own problems, when I’ve turned a selfish, blind eye to yours.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin muttered in response, shaking his head. “You come first-”

“Why is that?” Arthur inquired, his voice bitter as his eyes shot open. “Why do _I_ come first, exactly?”

Merlin did not know how to answer that question.

“I do not know of the bandages you keep wrapped around your heart,” Arthur continued, his voice melting with tenderness as he replaced his hand upon Merlin’s shoulder. “But I know you well enough to deduce that they are weak, and that they are doing little to mend the wounds that you’re hiding.”

Merlin said nothing.

“And believe me,” he continued, a small smile upon his lips. “You’re doing a poor job of hiding them. You always have.”

Rooted to his spot, Merlin could not yet respond. He simply stared.

“You’ve been through a lot at my expense,” Arthur began once again, sighing deeply. Merlin swallowed hard. “Before _and_ after I died. There is little I can do to even begin to make up for it. And for that, as well, I am sorry.”

“Arthur,” Merlin finally spoke, his throat dry and his voice weak. The pressure in his chest was fit to burst. “Don’t… don’t apologize. For anything. Please-”

“I know I’ve said some things in the past…” Arthur continued, brushing off Merlin’s pleas. “Things that I regret. And I know I’ll say more regrettable things in the time to come. You know that. You know me better than I know myself.”

“Arthur-”

“Please,” he continued, his grasp on Merlin’s shoulder tighter than it had ever been before. “Just… just promise me one thing, old friend. Promise me that you’ll never give up on me.”

“…Arthur.”

“Merlin, I… I need you.”

Merlin blinked.

 _I need you, too,_ he screamed within the confines of his own mind, his lips drawn tight as he wordlessly stared at Arthur. _I need you more than anything in this entire world. I’ve always needed you. I will always need you. I need you, too, Arthur. I need you-_

“Well,” Merlin finally uttered in a strangled attempt to sound lighthearted, his heart pulsing in his chest. “You know how it is with old me. I’ve got nowhere else to go. You’ve got me.”

“I’m glad,” Arthur responded graciously, pulling him into a tight embrace. The heat radiating from his chest enveloped a very surprised Merlin, who, until that moment, had been reeling at the words he had just heard.

As Arthur’s arms stretched around his back, Merlin found his own arms dangling uselessly to his side. His entire body felt loose. The limbs beneath his skin were pudding; the muscles, reduced to gelatin. The thoughts that had assaulted his mind were halted; all that mattered was the feel of his soft blond hair pressed against his cheek. The scent of his skin. The warmth of his entire being that had trickled away in his arms a thousand, four hundred and seventy-four years ago.

_I need you, too._

With a gentle pat on his back, Arthur finally let go. He smiled fondly at Merlin, who, meanwhile, was processing his emotions with immense difficulty.

There was a feeling at the pit of Merlin’s stomach that he could not quite understand. It was an amalgamation of feelings; a prick of fear, a jolt of sadness, of grief, and of pain. But another feeling was overwhelmingly present, something he could not put a name on. It was not unpleasant. It was quite nice.

Well, despite the fact that his legs shook beneath him and his breathing faltered. Otherwise, yes, quite nice. Quite nice, indeed. Nostalgic, even.

It lingered within him as they stood in silence. An awkward silence, it proved to be, as Arthur’s expression shifted to peer curiously at Merlin.

“Are you alright?” He inquired softly, replacing his hand upon his shoulder.

Merlin wasn’t entirely sure. The man – the same man whose death he had grieved for well over a thousand years of unspeakable pain and suffering – had just hugged him. Embraced him. Held him close, close enough so that his heat began to thaw the ice that had built up within his heart over the long years.

So, no. Merlin was not exactly “alright.”

“What?” Merlin blinked, gathering his wits as Arthur’s stare bore through his. “Oh, no, yeah. I’m fine.”

“I highly suspect that you are not being honest with me,” He sighed in response, pulling his hand from Merlin’s shoulder to mess with his hair as he smiled sadly. “But then again, Merlin, you never really were.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin mumbled, struggling to steady his voice as Arthur’s fingers ran though his messy hair.

“It seems that I’ll never be able to stop you from saying that damned word,” Arthur chuckled. “But I suppose that’s just who you are, and who you’ve always been.”

“And who I’ll always be,” Merlin laughed nervously, hating himself for the falsehood of Arthur’s assumptions and his own response. No, he would never be the same Merlin who had strolled through Camelot’s halls in Arthur’s wake almost every hour of every day. That Merlin died with Arthur on that fateful day so long ago. That Merlin would lay beside him in peaceful death within the calm, foggy waters of Avalon for hundreds upon hundreds of years to follow. “Which is rather unfortunate, I guess.”

“You’re worth so much more than the pit of self-deprecation that you’ve thrown yourself into, Merlin,” Arthur sighed, crossing his arms into his chest. “And I long to see the day you realize that.”

Merlin did not respond. He stared at Arthur with heavy eyes, struggling to part his lips and appreciate his kind words. There was a depth within Arthur’s expression that set his nerves on edge.

“And I’m sorry that I’ve done little to help you see it yourself,” he continued, an apologetic smile on his lips. Merlin swallowed hard. “I treated you poorly. I was the cause of much hurt in your life. Before _and_ after I died.”

“Don’t say that,” Merlin interrupted, wide-eyed. He could not accept the blame Arthur was placing upon himself. “Don’t you say that, Arthur. You know that isn’t true.”

“But it is,” Arthur sighed, frowning. “And it took me dying to realize it.”

“You’re an idiot and a hypocrite,” Merlin responded with more volume than he intended, unable to shake off the anger welling within his chest. “I wouldn’t have gone through all… all of _this_ if any of that were true! You were a king, and I was your servant! I was a nobody, a nobody lost in the middle of a crowd from a life entirely different than my own. And… and yet, you treated me with more kindness and compassion and true, true friendship than I would’ve ever dreamt of receiving from anyone, let alone from someone like you. Do you think petty insults and smacks to the back of the head have ever sullied how I’ve felt about you through the years? You will never understand what you-”

Merlin abruptly stopped speaking; he realized the direction in which his words were leading.

“I never told you of my magic for a reason,” Merlin continued after his awkward pause, which had been received with an unreadable expression from Arthur’s end. “I thought you told me you understood why.”

“I do, but-”

“Then, Arthur, do you still believe you’ve treated me poorly?”

“That doesn’t excuse the ignorance I’ve expressed in the past to you and your people.”

“The ignorance you speak of was an ignorance beyond your control,” Merlin sighed, looking at Arthur with apologetic eyes. “Growing up amongst the people you had, it was to be expected. I’ve always understood.”

Arthur was silent. Merlin immediately regretted his words; bringing up his family was a mistake.

“Not to mention,” He hastily added, desperate to end this conversation. “It’s been well over a thousand years, and I’m positive that such an amount of time warrants forgiveness.”

“That much is true,” Arthur whispered, tilting his head with a weak smile on his lips. “And yet, you cannot heed your own words?

“What do you mean?”

“You ask me to forgive myself,” he continued, sighing heavily. “Yet you cannot do so for yourself. That is hardly fair.”

Merlin bit his lip. He knew the truth in Arthur’s words.

“Hear me out, Merlin,” Arthur pressed on. “Though, you rarely listen to me as it is.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Merlin responded quietly as he pleaded to the heavens above for the conversation to end. “I know. I appreciate it, but I-”

“You’re broken and defeated,” Arthur interrupted, his voice solemn yet steady. Merlin blinked. “You’re broken, defeated, and you’re suffering. I can see it in you. The ‘look.’ I’ve been trained since birth to find this look, and to take advantage of it. I’ve killed men, many men, on the battlefield. I saw the look in all of these men. I even saw it within Mordred. I know this look better than anyone.”

Merlin did not speak.

“And for you, Merlin… for you, it is severe. You’ve got the face of a man I could never kill. A face of a man so broken, so defeated, so beyond the help of pity… If I had met you on the battlefield today as my sworn enemy, I could not kill you. I could not even begin to dream of it. I could not even do it out of mercy. I’d fear for the ground upon which I’d stand as soon as your blood would spill. The blood from such a man would surely be contagious.”

Arthur paused, placing his hand upon his abdomen where Mordred’s sword had passed a thousand, four hundred and seventy-four years ago.

“I can see that my return has only made things worse,” he sighed, his fingers tightening over the spot. “It has probably done more damage that my death had, alone. It pains to remember the last moments we shared before I died. It is a bit of a blur, to be honest. I just remember being very tired, and very comfortable with where I was. And I _do_ know where I was. I cannot thank you enough for how peaceful it all turned out to be, in the end.”

_Thank you._

Merlin had to get out of here. He had to leave this room immediately; he could not stand here and listen to any of this any longer. He needed to be unconscious. He needed to be deaf. He could not keep listening.

“But that is beside the point. What I want you to do, more than anything, is to accept that it was not your fault. It was never, ever, _ever_ your fault. I cannot do anything to change the pain you’ve endured throughout your life, because that is the past. A past during which I was not present. And it is unchangeable. But what I can do, and will do everything in my power to do, is fix you. To fix the damage I’ve done. In any single way than I can.”

“You can start by shutting up,” Merlin whispered in a strangled voice, a pressure on his chest that threatened to implode his heart. ‘Shut up, shut up, _shut up_.”

“…What?”

“Please. Just. Stop talking. Stop it.”

“Why are you-”

“You can’t fix me. No one can fix me. I’m a lost cause, Arthur. As I’ve been since the day you died.”

Arthur did not say anything. He simply stared at Merlin with a mixture of hurt and pity etched into his expression.

“I may be lost, but you are not. I’ve been given a second chance to make up for it. To make up for everything I could not do when it mattered the most. I can’t be fixed, Arthur. I can’t. But I can, and will, fix _you_.”

“Merlin, you – wait. What?” Arthur looked stunned as he struggled to comprehend what Merlin meant. “Fix _me_?”

“I… don’t know,” Merlin recalled the horror that was Arthur’s blank stare into nothingness from a few days ago, when his body had gone rigid and the dead look in his eyes almost sent Merlin over the edge in fear. He also recalled Aithusa’s words, the words that spelled an impending doom for Arthur. Merlin could not care less about his own issues; about how “broken” and “defeated” he was. He could not care less about the years of pain he endured. A man who hadn’t cared about anything for over a thousand years finally had something to care about again: one man, and nothing else. “Well, for one thing… something happened to you a few days ago that I don’t think you’d remember.”

“What happened?”

“We were talking about my memories of Camelot…” he began nervously, gesturing to the tiny table where they had been situated at the time. “Remember? You were… you were talking and then you just… went blank. You went completely and utterly blank.”

“I don’t think I’m following you.”

“You drifted off as you spoke. You… froze.”

“I’m sure if such a thing happened, I’d remember it-”

“You don’t have to believe me,” Merlin rolled his eyes as his emotions struggled to gather about themselves. “But I know what I saw.”

“I was wondering why you grabbed my face like that,” Arthur chuckled light-heartedly, a callousness to the dire situation at hand, which managed to irritate Merlin. “Thought you were about to kiss me.”

Merlin did not respond; he prayed that his pallid skin would not reveal the heat that blossomed within his cheeks.

“I was actually just checking to make sure you were still alive,” He muttered, turning away from Arthur and taking a seat at the table. “But, think what you will if the thought helps you sleep at night.”

“Shut up,” Arthur responded, taking the opposite seat. When he spoke again, his voice was substantially more serious. “But… are you telling me I just…”

“Turned into a statue?” Merlin interrupted, closing his eyes. “Essentially, yes.”

“Weird,” he responded lamely, furrowing his brow. “I ought to remember something like that.”

Merlin shrugged weakly, drumming his hands on the table. His nerves were on edge.

“You will tell me, right?” Arthur continued quietly, crossing his arms upon the table. “When you find out what’s happening. I’m beginning to think that you’re not telling me everything I should know.”

“Of course I will,” Merlin responded tentatively, greeted with a flooding sense of worry at the pit of his stomach.

“Thank you,” Arthur sighed, his voice tinged with doubt. “You can tell me anything, Merlin. After all we’ve been through...”

“Yeah,” Merlin coughed nervously again, avoiding his piercing stare. This conversation had to end. It _had_ to. “Well, now that all that is settled… and since I’m not going into work… what would you like to do today?”

“We don’t have to go anywhere,” Arthur replied nervously, staring at Merlin with a hesitance clear in his eyes. “You don’t have to do it for me.”

“The sun is shining,” Merlin insisted, desperate to leave this conversation behind him. “And that’s a rare thing to see in this country. Let’s go to the food market. There’s a big and painfully crowded one not too far from here.”

“Do you really want to go?”

“Do you really want to starve?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Arthur conceded with a heavy sigh. “But Merlin, you don’t have to-”

A pounding thud at the door interrupted Arthur mid-sentence. Merlin froze.

He had come to recognize Ms. Marley’s familiar drums on the door, which were always a three-part rhythm with the distinct sound of her large, numerous rings lightly rapping against the wood. He could recognize the individual ways his neighbours rarely knocked at his door, only occurring when a cup of sugar or salt was desperately needed or an invite to a party or supper was extended to him as well, though purely out of the etiquette of neighbourly goodness that was valued by the inhabitants of this apartment complex.

But the raucous, hurried smacks against the door were new and unfamiliar. And, especially in the wake of Aithusa’s warning, they were incredibly unsettling. Merlin hesitated to move toward it.

“Should I answer it?” Arthur asked innocently as he got up from his seat and headed toward the door.

“No!” Merlin shouted, throwing out his arms as gold flashed through his eyes. Arthur was immediately sent backward, stumbling onto the ground with a heavy thud.

“What the hell was that f-for?” He yelped from the ground, his face screwed up in pain. Merlin cursed at himself.

“Sorry, sorry!” He quickly got to his feet and strode toward Arthur, grabbing his arm and helping the heavier man to his feet. Another powerful thud rapped against the door.

“Who is it, Merlin?” Arthur inquired with a confused and bewildered voice as he straightened himself out and regained his balance. Merlin bit his lip as his paranoia ate away at him.

“I don’t know,” He whispered tentatively, releasing his grip from Arthur and heading toward the door with small and slow steps. “But I’m about to find out. Stand back.”

“Merlin, I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself.”

“I know you can, sire. So, if you’d please, shut up and stand back.”

Merlin ignored the affronted expression on Arthur’s face. He pressed his head to the door and peered through the peephole. All he could see was the head of a boy with messy brown hair and crooked glasses. He was instantly relieved.

“It’s alright, Arthur,” he exhaled with an apologetic smile on his lips. “It’s just a kid.”

“You knocked me flat onto the ground for a _kid_.”

“Had to be sure. Sorry.”

Merlin turned the tarnished knob and pulled open the door. What he was not expecting, however, was the state of the rest of the boy. He was utterly shocked.

The brown eyes beneath the glasses were wide, restless, and very much frightened. He was shaking and his skin was glistening with sweat. The boy’s clothes were wrinkled and stiff, and a schoolbag hung from his hunched shoulders. With another pang of alarm, Merlin saw that his hands were covered in dried blood.

“You m-must be Emrys,” the boy whispered, blinking rapidly. “And… that guy must be Arthur.”

Before Merlin or Arthur could respond, however, the boy collapsed onto the carpet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I did not forget about Gal. :') And, no, Merlin doesn't know that Arthur heard him yet. That will be tackled later.
> 
> Sorry for how short this chapter has ended up being and for the delay, once again. My charger broke and left me without my computer for a week. Goodness knows how I've been able to endure a whole seven days without my baby.
> 
> I've got a lot of domestic-y fluff and happiness on the way. But there's a lot of pain, conflict, and angst on the way as well, so don't trust your emotions. This is going to be a bumpy ride.
> 
> I promise promise promise that I'll be updating regularly again. I've got break for a week, and I'm hoping to get a lot of writing done in the meantime. Thank you!


	12. A Black and Burning Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange boy stumbles into Merlin's flat, and it seems as though Merlin's greatest fears are coming to fruition.

The ashen-faced boy was limp upon the sofa, his arm dangling off the side with the tips of his fingers touching musty carpet below. His breathing was hushed and very weak. It was still. _Too still_. His chest barely moved as the air pushed in and out through his lips. Merlin could not take his eyes off of him.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, having repeated the three words without stop for the better half of an hour. “Oh my _god_.”

“Is… is he even alive?” Arthur inquired in a whisper, a concerned fright in his eyes. He, too, could not keep them off the boy. More specifically, he could not keep his eyes from the blood on his hands.

“Of course he’s alive,” Merlin muttered, glaring at the unknown figure lying on his sofa. “That’s not what I’m worried about!”

“Merlin…”

Merlin’s eyes flickered from the boy to Arthur, who was staring at him, now, with an unpleasantly surprised expression. His eyes were wide; Merlin detected a note of hurt within them.

“What?”

“He’s just a boy,” Arthur spoke quietly, his eyes narrowed. “It is rather unlike you to show such little concern.”

 _It is rather unlike me to be a lot of things I am now_ , Merlin thought bitterly, looking away from Arthur’s judging eyes.

Besides, he could not afford to care. He was too absorbed in the dire reminder of Aithusa’s words replaying within his mind. This boy – a teenager, by the looks of it – was entirely unknown to him. But his voice… his voice was familiar. A familiarity that Merlin could not quite put his finger on.

“He could be anyone,” he argued, grabbing the boy’s dangling hand and eyeing the dried blood. There were cuts across the skin of his fingertips and a deep gash in his palm.

“What do you mean, anyone?” Arthur retorted, shocked. “He’s a harmless child!”

“That’s precisely what you all said about Mordred,” Merlin muttered quietly, unsettled by the words that slipped through his lips. He _was_ just a boy. And yet, Merlin could not bring himself to care.

Arthur gaped at him wordlessly. Merlin could almost feel the cold from icy callousness inhabiting his own face. It was certainly not a new expression. In fact, Merlin had been even colder for the past thousand and some-odd years. Arthur would never understand. He would never even begin to comprehend what changes in a man who has been alone for over a millennia.

Thawing would be a difficult and lengthy process. The ice that had built within the cracks and fissures of Merlin’s old, old heart had compiled for hundreds of years. It seized his chest, and soon enough, seized the entirety of his being. It was only when he heard Arthur’s voice that it had finally cracked. It was the most glorious sound that had resonated within the capacity of Merlin’s mind in an inconceivably long amount of time.

And all the while, as his eyes returned to peer at the boy in front of him while Arthur’s remained fixed in disbelief, Merlin felt the cold return to the cavity in his chest. Arthur would never understand.

 _A boy. That is all he is._ A boy he had never seen in his life, showing up at his front door with horrific timing. Why did Arthur have to care so much?

 _He’s just a_ _boy_.

Mordred was just a boy.

 _Mordred_.

“Wake up!” Merlin grabbed the scrawny arm that hung off the side and shook it violently, an unexplainable anger heaving in his chest. “I said, wake up!”

“Merlin!”

 _“Ic ácwice þé!”_ Merlin shouted the spell words of the Old Religion as his eyes flashed gold for a fleeting moment. The pale teenager began to stir. “ _Ic þé bebíede þæt þú ne slæpest! Brimstréam!_ ”

Suddenly, the boy’s eyes flashed open. Gasping for breath, he sprung upward, his pupils wide and frantically searching for something that Merlin could not even begin to guess.

“Arthur Pendragon?” He squeaked in a dry, broken voice. Merlin stepped backward. “Where is he?”

“I’m-”

“Who are you?” Merlin interrupted Arthur in a sharp, defensive voice. “And what do you want with Arthur Pendragon?”

“I… I don’t know… I…”

“Merlin,” Arthur cut in, calm and pleading. “Look at him. He’s struggling to think right now. Give him some time-”

“I can’t afford time,” Merlin responded flatly _. I can’t afford time when your life is at stake._

“Young man,” Arthur ignored him, looking at the bespectacled boy with an earnest expression. “Take a deep breath. There. That’s it. Now, whenever you are ready, please tell my servant who you are before he suffers a mental affliction.”

“He’s… y-your servant?” The boy croaked, his wild gaze flickering back and forth between the two men.

“Er, _was_ my servant-”

“That’s none of your business,” Merlin interrupted, staring coldly at the boy who cowered backward in response. “I’ll ask you again. Who are you?”

“G-Gal,” he stuttered weakly, blinking rapidly. “Well, m-most people call me Gal… or other things… r-rude things, very rude… but mostly Gal…”

“…Gal?” Merlin blinked.

“Well, it’s sh-short… for Galahad. My name is Galahad… Galahad Hoster Clarke…”

“Galahad Hoster Clarke,” Merlin repeated skeptically. And people snickered at _his_ name. “Where are you from, Galahad? Who sent you?”

“No one sent m-me anywhere,” he responded, a frightened yet undeniably innocent expression clear on his face. “I’m from Leicester… I think.”

“You _think_?”

“And who, might I ask, is the sovereign of this ‘Leicester’?” Arthur inquired enthusiastically, much to the boy’s apparent confusion. When he could not answer, Arthur looked to Merlin. “I… I figured I ought to know the names of the realm-”

“Look, boy,” Merlin continued, ignoring the offense clearly taken by Arthur for the interruption. “I don’t know what you’re playing at. Arthur Pendragon is not real. He’s a storybook character. A myth. A stupid legend from the past, nothing more.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped open at his words. Before he could say anything, however, Merlin quickly pressed his hand over his mouth, feeling Arthur’s hot breath and warm lips on his skin as he attempted to argue. Muffled sounds did not make for a strong argument.

“But I saw him!” The boy named Galahad argued, gaining courage beyond his weak and trembling voice. “I saw _him_ in my dreams,” he insisted, pointing at the bewildered blond man struggling to pry off Merlin’s hand from his face. “I saw him. And _you_.”

Merlin blinked, struggling to piece together the boy’s words to make sense.

“Who told you about this… this Arthur Pendragon?” Arthur inquired calmly, finally managing to pull off Merlin’s hand and find his voice. Merlin could not shake off the icy chill in the pit of his stomach.

“I don’t… I don’t really know,” The boy whispered, his breath hitched and his voice weak once again. “I just heard it. Out of the blue. In my head. Voices. Hushed, bloody dodgy voices.”

“Could you identify any of the voices?” Merlin asked stiffly, trying to compose himself. “Any of them?”

“Would that I could,” Galahad sighed, pulling his broken glasses from the bridge of his nose and examining them with his bloodstained fingers. “They were screaming in my head… and it hurt to listen. Everything started spinning.”

“When?” Merlin was directly to the edge of the sofa now, leaning in toward the boy who flinched back at the sound of his cold voice.

“I don’t remember!” he cried, clutching at his temples with rough, scabbed palms. “I don’t know! All I know is… one second I was… in class? Yes. Yes, I was in the middle of class. In the middle of an exam. Maths. Or was it biology? Maybe it was history, I don’t know-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin pressed, shaking his head vigorously. “Get to the point.”

“R-Right… well… I kept seeing his face,” the boy jerked his head toward Arthur once more, trembling. “And the voices… they were loud… but quiet. They were screaming… but they were whispering as well, I think… I don’t know. It hurts to think about it.”

“I am deeply sorry for the pain this is causing you, Galahad,” Arthur apologized quietly, gazing at the boy with sincere eyes that caused Merlin’s heart to falter. “But it is of grave import that you tell us all that you can-”

“What did the voices say?” Merlin cut in, piecing together the familiarity of Galahad’s voice. Before the boy could respond, however, a sudden instinct overwhelmed him, and Merlin grabbed his forearm with more force than necessary.

_HE HAS RETURNED. ARTHUR PENDRAGON HAS RETURNED. THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING HAS RISEN, ONCE AGAIN._

Pain shot up through Merlin’s arm and sent him flying onto his back against the floor. The shock was inexplicably sudden; he could not even utter a single gasp before his spine slammed against the dingy carpet.

Yep. That explained it.

“Gods be good, Merlin!” Arthur called out as Merlin blinked up at the ceiling, dazed. “Are you alright?”

Merlin grabbed his extended hand and pulled himself upward, struggling to regulate the beating of his heart. His arm throbbed faintly, but the words replayed within his mind at full volume.

“So it _was_ you,” he whispered breathlessly, staring at the meek boy without bothering to hide his astonishment. “You’re a seer.”

“A _seer_?” Arthur and Galahad repeated in unison, confused.

“He knows who we are,” Merlin concluded as his heart settled back into place, though the ice at the pit of his stomach grew to entrench his chest as well. Aithusa warned him of how essential it was to keep their identities a secret. And, now, a defenseless, hapless, and scrawny teenage boy with blood on his hands knew enough. “Goodness knows what else he has seen.”

“…Well, I ought to get going,” Galahad muttered, struggling to get to his feet. “I’ve heard and seen enough loony crock for one sitting.”

“You’re the one seeing things you shouldn’t be seeing,” Merlin retorted, locking his fingers around the boy’s thin wrist as he tried to walk away. Immediately, the room dissipated around him.

A moment later, Merlin found himself on cracked pavement, with a blaring heat incinerating the air around him. Sticky warmth flooded the inside of his mouth, tasting very metallic and very salty. His back felt as though a thousand shards of glass had found their way through his skin. Perhaps it _was_ glass, for the jagged debris rested all over the asphalt beside him. There was something else on the asphalt that caught his eye, however. Dark spots, slick and smelling strongly of the same grotesque aroma of rust that flooded his mouth in quick, uncomfortable spurts.  His vision began to blur, and an unspeakable pain seized his chest. Agony pulsated through his veins. He could not breathe. He could not think. Spots began to cloud his vision.

_“Merlin…”_

A dark silhouette leaned in above his face at a short distance. The voice was very close; he could feel the speaker’s hot breath brush against his face. It was pleasant, despite the overwhelming heat that already permeated within the atmosphere. This heat was soothing and sweet.

_“Look at m-me… LOOK AT ME!”_

Merlin wanted to look. He really, truly did. But he could barely keep his eyes open. A sudden fatigue washed over him, numbing the sharp jabs of pain that lined against his spine and relieving him of the agony that seized every muscle in his chest. His hearing began to fade as well; every scream and shout in the distance melted into the background, a discordant lullaby persuading him to give into the exhaustion. He was so tired. So incredibly tired. Merlin’s eyelids began to flutter.

_“MERLIN!”_

It was Arthur’s voice, he realized, shouting at him from above. Funny. His lips were but a few inches above his face, though his voice was a world away. Distant, yet distraught. Merlin felt sad.

 _“I’m… sorry…”_ he found himself whispering weakly, trying his hardest to smile. The glow of fire illuminated his peripheral vision. It made Arthur’s silhouette look otherworldly. Divine. Beautiful.

 _“Stay,”_ Arthur pleaded in a dry, broken voice. _“Stay with me. Stay.”_

Merlin could vaguely feel the warm droplets falling freely onto his cheeks. They were not his own tears, however. A moment later, a warm, trembling hand found his.

How desperately he wished that he could see the man’s face. If only his eyes could focus, just for a moment. Just once more, one last time-

Merlin’s fingers were pulled off of Galahad’s wrist, his hand falling lamely onto his lap. He blinked. There was carpet beneath his feet and a chill in the air. He could breathe again; his lungs took in the clean air with desperation. There was no orange glow, no smoke nor ash nor heat in the room. The glass shards had been removed from the skin on his back, and his chest was no longer constricted, though his heart beat faster than it ever had before.

“Bloody hell,” Galahad whispered, eyes wide as he stumbled backward. His face was ashen, and a sheen of sweat glistened over his brow.

“Merlin?” A voice whispered from behind him, sounding thoroughly confused. Merlin turned around slowly to find a deeply distressed Arthur staring right at him. He could feel sweat begin rest upon his own brow, as well.

“Wait, why do you keep calling him Merlin?” The boy complained, sighing. “No no, that’s not right! I… I thought his name was Emrys!”

“He’s, er, got two names.”

For a moment, Galahad looked just about ready to retch up whatever morsel of nourishment he had eaten in the past twenty-four hours. Suddenly, however, the knot on his forehead softened, and his eyes widened once again.

“Wait… Oh. That makes sense. If you’re King Arthur, then you’ve got to be Merlin…”

He blinked.

“And that means… it’s… all… real… everything I read as a kid… back in primary school… all those stories… It’s all _real_?”

“How do you know our names?” Arthur inquired, no longer sounding as composed and calm as he had been before.

“Who doesn’t know your names? Everyone knows your names! You’re myths! You just said so! You’re… not real… but you are…”

“Galahad.”

“I don’t…kn-know!”

Merlin could not pay attention to the conversation. It took all his strength to remain conscious. He had met many a seer throughout his life, learned their stories and heard their outrageous claims and visions. It was not a surprise that many of these “seers” were not truly seers. Even so, he had never touched them. He had never cared for seeing any future that was not his, especially after what he had seen through a certain seer’s vision in the past.

The last time he had been enlightened by a seer’s touch, he had been in some nondescript cave outside the ruins of a sacked village. The dying old man’s fingers wrapped around Merlin’s skin, ice cold and rough with callous and age. And, then, he had seen it. He had seen Mordred and Arthur on the battlefield surrounded by the corpses of their brothers in arms. The sky was red with anger. The air was thick. And before he knew it, Merlin had seen Mordred’s sword run through Arthur’s body.

It was the outcome of a prophecy. Of _his_ prophecy. Of _their_ prophecy. A glimpse into the destiny that Merlin fought his hardest to avoid. So what was he to make of this latest vision?

Merlin _felt_ it. He could feel the breath escape his lips. He could feel the life leak out of his body. The blood in his mouth – he could taste it. The blood that soaked the pavement beneath him – without a doubt, it was his own. The fatigue was not fatigue; it was his body giving up, it was his life fading away. He was dying.

 _He was dying_.

But… Emrys meant immortal. Merlin could _never_ die, no matter how hard he tried over the years. And goodness knows how many times he tried. Something was very wrong with this picture.

“How old are you, Galahad?”

Both Galahad and Arthur turned suddenly to the sound of Merlin’s voice. He stared back at them, his face composed and his eyes sullen.

“…I’m sixteen… Mr. Merlin-Wizard-Sir, whatever it was that you just… s-saw… I’m sorry, I have no idea-”

“Galahad,” Merlin interrupted quietly, his voice void of any emotion whatsoever. “How did you come here?”

“I… well… let’s see… I was in the hospital… in a white bed. It smelled like cold medicine. And cough syrup. I don’t like hospitals very much.”

“Why were you in a hospital?”

“I… think it has something to do with what I mentioned before, with what happened in class… they told me I fainted during my exam? Something about a stress-induced breakdown of sorts? Which is crock, mind you… Exams don’t scare me.”

“Then what scares you, Galahad?” Merlin asked before he knew what he was saying.

The boy stared at Merlin, his face still yet his big brown eyes clearer than they had ever been before.

“People do,” he stated calmly. “People scare me.”

It was quiet for a few prolonged moments. Merlin gazed at the boy, unable to make sense of anything he had said.

“So you were in a hospital… and…?”

“Well, no one was listening to me… I had to get out… I had to tell someone something… before it was t-too late?”

“Before what was too late?” Merlin urged, panicking despite the stiff composure he forced upon his face. “Who is this someone? What is this something?”  
“I don’t… I don’t know!” He cried out, losing his relative calm and trembling once again. “I just knew I couldn’t stay there, that someone had to know what I had heard… those words…”

“The prophecy.”

“That nonsense was a prophecy?” Galahad looked close to retching again. “I can’t tell if you’re mad, or if I’m mad, or…”

“Continue.”

“Right, right,” Galahad cleared his throat nervously, eyes flickering back and forth between Merlin and a very silent Arthur, who stared at the two with very little expression. “I… er, I got up… pulled out all those needles and things… saw my clothes on a chair, so I put them on… I think my parents went to get breakfast, so I was alone… there was a nurse but… I don’t remember what happened to her… what if I did something to her?” The boy panicked, looking at his hands and somehow growing even paler than he already was.

“Calm down,” Arthur said quietly, reaching to soothingly pat the boy on the arm. “You’ve done nothing wrong, I am sure of it.”

“Keep talking,” Merlin muttered, swallowing nervously as he eyed the dried blood and wondering whose it was.

“I… don’t remember much… it all happened so fast, it was a blur… I ran through some streets… I got on the tube at some point, I think… I don’t r-remember anything else but… then I just ran through more streets, might’ve knocked over an old lady on the way but… then I… showed up at this place. That door. Right over there,” he pointed to Merlin’s front door and closed his eyes. “That’s… all.”

Merlin’s head was swimming with new and unanswered questions that he could not quite put into words.

“I’m tired,” Galahad whispered, burying his face in his hands. “I’m _so_ tired.”

“You have done very well, Galahad,” Arthur assured him, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Merlin, I think we’ve questioned the lad enough for one day.”

Arthur was right. Galahad looked close to death, and every breath he took seemed to pain him. But Merlin knew there was no way he could let this boy go on his own, now that he knew Arthur’s identity as well as his own. He was a threat. A threat that, with a bit of force and a little touch, could be milked of all information.

But there would be people looking for him, and that was for sure. A boy who inexplicably walked out of a hospital and went missing would not go unnoticed by anyone. Merlin was harboring a missing child. This was bad.

“I agree,” he finally said, nodding hesitantly. “You can stay here for the night in m- er, Arthur’s room, if he’s alright with that.”

“I give him my complete permission,” Arthur nodded.

“Good,” Merlin turned to Galahad, whose eyelids fluttered with fatigue. “But know this. I still have questions to ask you. Many questions. And you cannot possibly go home right now, for reasons I will explain to you later. But, for all intents and purposes, you are a missing child. And there will be people looking for you,” good _and_ bad people, to be specific. But Merlin did not mention it aloud.

“Can I c-call my parents?” The boy asked nervously. “They must be out of their wits, by now… oh god, they’re going to kill me…”

“I don’t think that will be the wisest thing to do right now,” Merlin responded as delicately as possible. “I’ll… figure out what to do. Just go to bed. We’ll talk more later, and try to remember as much as you can.”

“…So you’re _really_ Merlin? The old and wizened wizard Merlin? And he’s _really_ King Arthur?”

“Yes,” Merlin rolled his eyes, impatient. “Go to sleep.”

“Like. Really, really? You’re not just make-believe, or anything?”

“Yes, really. Now can you just-”

“Holy hell. I’ve got some questions of my own, now. How on earth are you still aliv-”

Merlin flicked a finger. As his eyes flashed gold, the boy went silent. He blinked a few times, and a moment later, soft snores escaped his lips. Arthur snickered.

“Well, that’s one way to deal with him.”

“It had to be done,” Merlin sighed, pulling the boy’s shoulders. “Grab his feet. We’re moving him.”

Arthur nodded and grabbed the boy by the ankles. Light as a feather, they carried him to the bedroom and dropped him onto the mattress.

“I feel like we’re getting rid of a body,” Merlin whispered, chuckling without humor. This boy was too big of a threat. A threat that had to be dealt with accordingly.

“What are we going to do with him?” Arthur inquired, his brow furrowed at the dark expression that grew on Merlin’s face.

“To be honest, I don’t know,” Merlin sighed again, glancing at the boy limp on the mattress. “We don’t have many options, Arthur.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if it comes to it…” Merlin hesitated at the transformation of Arthur’s expression from confusion into outrage. “Look, Arthur, he’s a wanted boy with a plethora of information hidden in that skull of his. And, believe me, seers aren’t difficult to crack into-”

“You cannot possibly be implying what I think you’re implying-”

“You don’t understand, Arthur,” Merlin began, unable to hold in the truth as long as he would’ve liked. “There are… people. Bad people. They’re looking for you. For you, and me. And this boy, right here,” he pointed at the sleeping boy. “He’s the key. He is the key they need to unlock every detail they need to find us.”

“What people?” Arthur’s nostrils flared in anger. “Merlin, you cannot hope to hide everything from me for long, I’m not stupid-”

“I know you’re not stupid. But these are bad people. Very bad people. People like me. People like Morgana, like Mordred, like Morgause, like-”

“I thought you said you were the only sorcerer left…” Arthur was thoroughly exasperated, eyes darting back and forth between Merlin and the boy below.

“For a long time I thought I was,” Merlin admitted, throwing himself down on the chair at his desk. “Okay, that’s a lie. I never thought I was. I tried convincing myself I was. It was easier that way.”

“Merlin-”

“I figured I had no obligations left to my kind. I’d done my duty, trying to protect you. And then you died. You died because of what I am. And so, I hated magic, and I still do. I hate it.”

Arthur did not respond. Merlin watched as the man’s eyes were fixed on the lightly snoring boy on the bed. He sighed.

“The stories people tell of our legend… of the glorious King Arthur of Camelot and the great and powerful wizard Merlin, with his long white beard and his pointy blue hat, right by his king’s side. They make my legend out to be some kind of heroic tale of bravery and strength. Of unfailing courage and honour. An old, wizened schemer whose brain would work with King Arthur’s brawn to save Camelot from doom… They all think I’m some kind of hero.”

“You _are_ a hero.”

“Will you still call me a hero after this boy is dead?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Arthur’s eyes grew wide with terror. Before Merlin knew it, the man’s hands had clamped down upon his shoulders. “I know you. I know who you are, and I know that you would not let this poor child lose his life over something beyond his control.”

“He knows too much,” Merlin sighed, failing to shake off his grip. “He knows too much, and I cannot afford to let him live.”

“No,” Arthur glared at Merlin, a mixture of shock and disappointment clear on his face. “You cannot do this, Merlin. You cannot. I will not let you.”

“I will not let you die when I can do something about it!”

“What happened to you? You told me you never changed, but here you are, prepared to kill an innocent boy for the sake of-”

“I lied!” Merlin knocked over the chair in his haste to hop up from his seat. His stare bore into Arthur’s as the heat in his head threatened to overwhelm him. “I lied because I didn’t want to disappoint you again and again after so long! I wanted you to be at peace! I didn’t want to know how you’d look at me if you’d known what I’ve become. I didn’t want you to see me for what I am now. I’ve become a monster. I’m a monster, an ugly, cold-hearted, and callous monster!”

Arthur did not respond. He took a step backward, closer to the boy… as if he were truly afraid of Merlin.

“If I drove a knife through this boy’s heart, I can tell you now, I wouldn’t feel a thing,” Merlin continued, letting the darkness numb the pain in his heart. “Because I don’t feel things anymore. Not the way I used to.”

“Merlin…”

“I was too soft back then. I was a coward. I hid behind hope. I poisoned Morgana once, a long, long time ago. I had been told that she would be my demise. So I did it. I poisoned her. And though she lived, the guilt was too much for me to bear, and I felt sick. I felt like a monster, and I couldn’t stomach the thought.”

Merlin was surprised at the memories he recalled. A moment before the words spilled out of his mouth, he would not have even begun to remember the time, long ago, when he had poisoned the liquid in his waterskin and handed it to Morgana. Morgause had interceded and taken her before he knew it, however, and it was that moment precisely when Merlin had recognized his failure.

“I couldn’t touch Mordred, because of this weight in my chest. I knew I had to kill him to save you, and I’d get so close. So damn close. But every single time, at the very last second, I’d falter. Because of my stupid little heart telling me that what I was about to do was _wrong_. I figured I couldn’t do it myself. And when I expected others to do the dirty work for me… like those old crones in the cave, when Mordred got speared and left to fester and die… it all went against me.”

Memories flew threw Merlin’s head, memories he did not know he still had existing within his old and weary mind. His chest felt tight.

“Last night, I was alerted of a dire issue that needed to be addressed,” Merlin hesitated to discuss the details of the night before when he had spoken to Aithusa. Arthur should not be privy to the knowledge of their meeting, but Merlin could not stop himself. “I was told that your life is in danger. It’s rather funny how destiny works. You die, I suffer for years without end. You come back, I’m still suffering. And now, I have reason to believe you’ll be gone again before I know it. I wonder what will follow.”

“Who told you this?” Arthur was finally able to use his voice, his face ashen and his eyes nervous. Merlin did not wish to know what was going through his mind.

“An old friend,” An old enemy, more like. But Merlin was not about to let Arthur know that his half-sister’s dragon was alive and well and acting as somewhat of an informant. “A reliable source.”

“My life is in danger again,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “My life seems keen on being in a constant state of danger.”

“While this boy is alive, you’ll always be in danger,” Merlin sighed, burying his face in his hands. “I can’t have that. I can’t lose you again. I can’t let him become another Mordred.”

“As far as I am concerned, this boy has no qualm against me,” Arthur insisted, glancing at the dozing teenager sprawled across the mattress. “He will not be a threat if no one can get his hands on him. You said he’s a seer, right?”

“Right,” With a shiver, Merlin recalled the vision that overtook his consciousness upon his touch.

“How do seers… work?”

“They can project what they foresee to others,” Merlin explained, vaguely recalling the grasp of the old seer who had taken his wrist in the cave so long ago. “However, I do not know whether or not it can be taken by force. I do not know if they project visions out of their own will. I really do not know very much about how seers work, to be honest.”

“We can keep him here, then,” Arthur suggested, furrowing his brow. “Under our protection, he will be safe from harm.”

“Arthur, you don’t understand,” Merlin explained, sighing. “In this century, if a child goes missing, an entire police force is sent out to look for them. They may not be our enemy, but I do not know if my powers are enough to stop all of them from compromising our location. If we are caught with this boy, questions will be asked. Questions that you cannot hope to answer without me answering them.”

“I… see…” Arthur looked distraught, his eyes flickering between the boy and Merlin. “We cannot send him back home…?”

“No, we cannot,” Merlin sighed, feeling pangs of guilt despite himself over the thought of silencing the boy. How could he have even thought of such a thing? “He would need to be protected at all times. I know of no one who could offer that protection outside of myself. But I have a duty to someone else.” He smiled apologetically at Arthur.

“What of that reliable source of yours?” Arthur suggested, his voice surprisingly small. Merlin could have sworn he saw a light tint of pink on his cheeks, but even if he had, it was already gone.

“I… don’t think that would work out,” Merlin admitted, recalling the massive beast that was Aithusa, the great white dragon. He was suddenly disappointed in himself for the lack of friends he had to turn to.

“Then what are we to do?”

“Don’t know ‘bout the likes of you two fools, but I can be o’ some service.”

Merlin and Arthur looked at each other for a moment, wordless. The voice uttering those words did not belong to either of them. Slowly, they both turned to the source.

A smiling stranger stood in the doorway with a bitten apple in her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galahad is pretty cute, let's be honest. Also, who's this stranger? You'll find out soon enough.
> 
> Okay, I cannot even begin to apologize enough for the massive delay of updating. This past month has been hectic; with a busted ankle among a plethora of health issues, final exams, and other school woes, I've found very little time to write. I feel so incredibly bad, and I promise this kind of delay will not happen again any time soon. Again, I'm so sorry!
> 
> Another update will be out within the next two weeks, I promise!
> 
> P.S., ignore the chapter title, it's inspired by a song I really like and it felt fitting.


	13. The Kindness of Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If his troubles did not seem plentiful enough, another happens to walk through Merlin's bedroom door. But can she and her dire tidings be trusted?
> 
> Mistakes are made, and even Merlin is not as infallible as he hopes to be.
> 
> ** SMALL HIATUS UPDATE IN CHAPTER END NOTES, PLEASE READ! **

“Arthur,” Merlin’s heart froze beneath his ribs. “Stand back.”

The stranger in the doorway took a bite of the apple in her grasp. Merlin blinked as the juices trickled down her small chin.

“Am I late t’ the party?” She chuckled, tossing the apple over her shoulder. The thud against the carpet that Merlin anticipated never came forth.

“Not another step closer,” he warned, taking a nervous stride in front of an unmoving Arthur.

The stranger who stood before the strange party looked, well, even stranger than they. She was clad in an array of leathers and chains that shimmered in the weak lighting of the bedroom. Her vest was purposely faded and purposely torn, with a certain grunge to it that could only mean it was influenced by a punk band. Thick black boots covered her from foot to knee with small spikes jutting from the toes. But her clothes were the most threatening things about her.

Beneath the dark garments stood a short and skinny girl with a chest as flat as that of a young boy. Her heavy clothing did little to mask the tiny stature that hid beneath it. Her hair was dyed snow white and flew in every direction, reaching her shoulders at its longest point. Her ears, eyebrows, nose, and rosy red lips were studded with oddments of silver and gold that faintly glimmered amidst the devilish grin stretched across her face.

If ‘rebellious teenage youth’ needed a shining example, this strange girl was more than qualified for the job.

“I know what you’re looking for, boy,” She laughed at Merlin, stepping toward the bed where Galahad lay snoring softly. “I know what all boys are lookin’ for when they eye a lady the way you’re doin’ right now. But the gods didn’t give me the dugs you’re lookin’ for. My apologi-”

Before she could finish her jape, Merlin threw her against the wall. Her head smashed against the faded wallpaper with a sickening crack, but he did not so much as wince at the sound. One hand was around her throat, the other binding her wrists beneath its grasp. She struggled beneath his grip, her dark eyes fluttering as she fought to catch a breath.

“I _said,_ not another step closer,” Merlin seethed, his grip unrelenting. “Who the hell are you?”

“L-let… m-me… I can’t… br-breathe… let m-me g-g-…” she wheezed as a trickle of blood fell from beneath her wild white fringe.

“Merlin!” Arthur was pulling at Merlin’s shirt from behind, the collar digging into his neck. “Let go of him! You’re suffocating the boy!”

“I’m… n-not… a b-boy!” She choked, her struggle weakening.

“I told you to stand back, Arthur,” Merlin shook him off as a heat crept up his fingers. He refused to look away from the girl. “For once, please, listen to me.”

“I S-SAID… L-LET… M-M-ME… GO!”

“Not a chance-”

Before he could react, however, the girl wrenched a thin and sweaty arm free from his grasp. With a flick of her fingers, Merlin saw a gleam of gold in her eyes and felt the jolt of a sudden force knocking the wind from his stomach. His skull rang in his head as he hit the floor, landing on his back with loud thud.

_What the hell?_

Stars flickered before his eyes as he struggled to regain his wits. As all sense returned, he felt an unseen weight pressed against his chest. Blinking rapidly, Merlin fought to regain his sight. When he did, his eyes widened, and a fury stirred beneath his ribs as heat flooded to his cheeks.

One of the girl’s thick black boots was on the center of his chest. Above him she stood proudly, her small hands on her hips as the devilish grin loomed overhead. _I’m more out of shape that I thought,_ Merlin thought silently, feeling the fire burn on his face.

“I know you t’ be our saviour and all,” The girl mused, driving the tip of her boots further into his ribs. “But don’t you even try to manhandle me like that ever again, boy.”

“Get off of me!” Merlin hissed, writhing beneath her foot like a fish on land.

“Best say you’re sorry then, mate.”

“If you don’t get off of me in the next three seconds, you’ll be the one who’s sorry. I’ll make sure you’re _very_ sorry.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No,” Merlin smiled darkly, his eyes flashing bright gold. “That’s a promise.”

He grabbed the girl by the boot before she could utter a single gasp. A second later, she was slumped against the wall in a cloud of white dust as bits of plaster and wallpaper spilled around her. Merlin got to his feet and shook his shirt of the dirt that caked beneath her boot. Arthur simply stared wordlessly, eyes wide and mouth gaping open at the scene before him. Of course, Galahad was still snoring as soundly as an old man during an afternoon nap.

“Get your sword,” Merlin beckoned to Arthur, uncomfortable with his lack of defense. “I trust you still know how to use it after all these years?”

“What?” It took a moment for Arthur to snap out of his shocked reverie. When he did, he blinked, and his annoyance set in as he turned to the closet where the blade was stored. “Of course I do!”

“Just checking,” Merlin laughed humorlessly, inching toward the limp figure against the ruins of his wall. This certainly did not look good. All the bravado the girl carried through his door was lost as she sat against the wall with her head and shoulders hunched to her chest. Only now did he register how young the girl must be, no more than thirteen or fourteen, by the looks of it. A twinge in his heart caught him at unawares.

“Who is this girl?” Arthur inquired softly as he brandished his sword at Merlin’s side, his gaze locked on the slumped and dusty figure.

“That’s what I’m meaning to find out,” Merlin sighed, crouching next to her. He held up her head and slapped her lightly across the face a couple times before she started to blink. When her wits seemed to gather about her, her small eyes narrowed angrily, and she made to smack him in the nose before Merlin grabbed her by the wrist.

“You left me no choice,” he whispered, gripping her tiny wrist with discomfort. “And now I’ve got a few questions for you.”

“Boy, if you th-think I’m gonna answer any horseshit that comes from your lips-”

“Quit calling me boy, little girl,” Merlin rolled his eyes, suppressing a chuckle as she weakly fought to wrench her wrist free of his grasp. “Do you know how old I am?”

“Old enough t’ know that I’m not your enemy,” She hissed, revealing bloodied teeth behind bloodied lips.

“If you’re not my enemy, then who the hell are you?”

“She sent me.”

“Who sent you?”

“ _She_ ,” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “Aithusa.”

“Aithusa?” Arthur inquired with thorough confusion. Merlin almost forgot about his ignorance to the majority of the issues that existed at hand. “May I ask who that is?”

“He don’t know?”

“Be quiet-”

“What don’t I know, Merlin?”

“Damn it all!” Merlin shouted, turning to Arthur. “I’ll explain everything to you later, just… just be quiet for now.”

“You cannot tell _me_ to be quiet, Merlin. I think you’re forgetting who I am.”

“Trust me, Arthur,” Merlin seethed, his fury growing ever stronger in his chest. “I haven’t forgotten who you are,”

“Are you two gonna keep bantering like an old married couple, or are you going t’ interrogate me s’more?”

“We are most certainly _not_ man and wife!”

“Both of you, shut up,” Merlin responded as heat filled his cheeks again. He turned away from Arthur. “Why did Aithusa send you, whoever the hell you are?”

“Enid. Enid Yoshinaga. A mouthful t’ say, but, aye, that’s who the hell I am.”

“That… is an odd name,” Arthur whispered from behind Merlin’s shoulder. “I am sorry for the mistreatment my friend has given you, Lady Enid.”

“Quite a prince charming you’ve got here,” Enid chuckled weakly, a piece of plaster falling from her snowy hair with the movement. “Thank you, Mr. Pendragon.”

“Mister?”

“Another way of saying ‘Sir’,” Merlin clarified exasperatedly, rolling his eyes. “Enough chatter. Arthur, put away the sword. We won’t be needing it, I hope. Miss… Yoshi-… er…”

“Yoshinaga,” The girl chuckled again. It looked like it hurt her to do so.

“Yoshinaga,” Merlin repeated slowly, much to the girl’s continued mirth.

“Yoshinaga,” Arthur echoed behind him as he returned from the closet, soundly queerly fascinated with the name.

“…Anyway,” Merlin began, masking his voice in the best disguise of calm and quiet that he could muster. “Enid, why has Aithusa sent you here?”

“She knew ‘bout the boy,” she began quietly, her breath unsteady as she spoke. “Hell, she knows just ‘bout everything, it seems t’ me. But she’s entrusted me with the task of helping you two fools. Spewed a bunch of horseshit about destiny and what not, that it’s my time t’ help some shit prophecy come to fruition and all that. That I’ve been ‘chosen’ or somethin’. A load of crock, I thought, but I couldn’t deny what I heard. I was napping when I heard it, the prophecy. Not a day later, I… heard her, or whatever. She talked to me as though I was… I was…-”

“Dreaming?” Merlin finished for her; he knew the pattern.

“Yeah, dreamin’,” She whispered as the strength in her dwindled by each second. Merlin felt another twinge in his gut. It had been a long time since he felt regretful toward anyone but himself and a certain undead king.

“And then?” Merlin pried after a moment of silence. Silence was uncomfortable.

“And then she told me everythin’ I needed to know. At first I thought I’d shit myself silly when I… er… saw her. Thought I was still dreamin’. Thought someone was takin’ the most elaborate piss on me they could think of. But it was no dream, I knew.”

“What… what exactly did she tell you?”

“Who you are, who Prince Charming over there is, the basics of what I had t’ know… I don’t know why. But I listened… and I just. I just _knew_. That’s all the likes of you need t’ know, boy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Merlin’s eyes seemed keen on rolling quite a lot today. “What are you, anyway? Twelve? Thirteen?”

“Fuck you, mate,” She spat, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I’m seventeen. A woman grown.”

“And I’m well over a thousand, a man grown beyond a hundred times over,” Merlin japed, hiding his surprise at the girl’s true age. For all he knew, she could be lying. The girl was a twig.

“I don’t care,” she muttered in an attempt to sound indifferent, but her own surprise was not well concealed. “I call who I want, what I want.”

“Look, kid, I don’t care where you’re from, what your name is, or how hold you happen to be. What I care about is what you intend to do with that boy. What Aithusa intends.”

“Aithusa knows who the boy is,” Enid muttered darkly, bits of plaster dust falling from her wild mane. “She knows what kind o’ power he’s got.”

“Do _you_ know what kind of power he’s got?”

“Like hell if I know. She only told me what I had t’ do. No more details than the plan.”

“And the plan…?”

“You ought t’ let me finish before you interrupt me again,” she sighed. A drop of dark red blood fell from her brow. “She said you’d be in trouble, and that he’d be in trouble. She said I’ll be his personal bodyguard from this point onward. His 'unseen shadow’, or somethin’.”

“Aithusa made _you_ his guard dog?” Merlin suppressed another chuckle. “A twig like you?”

“Call me a twig again and I’ll let you know how sharp this branch can be, boy,” she glared darkly, though her threat held little substance in the shape she was in. “I’m to take him back t’ his own house and keep posted there day and night. Me and the other guy.”

“What other guy?”

“His name’s Gerold. Or maybe it’s Garrett? Maybe Gared. I forget. Haven’t met the guy.”

Merlin tried to fit the pieces together in his head, but it did not seem intent on adding up. This girl – this tiny sorceress, from who knew where, meant to watch over the key to Arthur’s ruin? Her, and another stranger whose name she could not even recall? He could barely trust Aithusa, alone. But to trust a girl who had somehow found her way into his own house to catch him at complete and utter unawares? Either Merlin had become extremely rusty in power and mind alike, or something was horribly wrong with this picture.

The thought of losing Arthur yet again made his stomach churn and his heart skip a beat. He could not let that happen. But Merlin could not find it in his heart to trust anyone, most of all Morgana’s grieving pet. Letting the boy stay at his home could not be allowed either, however. He would ultimately be found, and Merlin would have to answer for it. And somehow, Aithusa had foreseen this problem in that old mind of hers.

An old mind, yet she was younger than Merlin himself. He had to suppress another humorless chuckle.

“You know, I’ve heard about you in stories,” Enid whispered, breaking Merlin free of his reverie. “Every kid across the globe has, I’ll bet. But you’ve got no beard t’ boast of, it seems. No hat. Damn. I really thought you’d have the hat.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Merlin sighed, thinking of what the dragon could have possibly said to the girl. “I have a habit of disappointing a lot of people, it seems.”

From behind him, Merlin felt Arthur’s hand rest on his shoulder. He also noticed the queer expression that appeared on the girl’s face for half a second.

“I’m on your side,” she whispered, attempting to smile. “Magic’s always run in my family. Well, half of it. My mum’s descended from the bastard of some ol’ big time sorcerer from five centuries ago. Noble he was, apparently. Some kind of lord. But his bastard got none of the recognition, though he had more juice in him than his father could ever hope t’ have. My mum’s still bitter about it, as are the rest of her people. My dad’s the kid of a businessman and a teacher back in Kyoto without a single drop of the stuff in his veins, but he learned to adapt to me ma’s family just fine. I’m one of the lucky ones, though. My mum and her folks have been teaching me the way of things since day one. Can’t say that about a lot of others, I reckon. But I’m a grateful kid.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Merlin inquired, surprised at her sudden relative calm.

“I know what you’re thinkin’, mate,” she sighed, attempting to straighten herself against the mess of the wall behind her to no avail. “You don’t trust me. I don’t trust no one either, ‘tis true. And I can’t do anything to make you believe me any more, and I know that. Clear as day. But I’ve lived my life being called a freak. A weirdo. An outcast. And it sucked knowin’ that I couldn’t so much as lift a damned finger to shove their words up their arses. If they knew what kind o’ power I had, they’d be running with their tails between their skinny little legs. But now that I know I’ve got some inkling of a purpose… a chance to be who I am and actually do some kind of good in this ugly world, well, who am I to pass up?”

Merlin swallowed hard. His mind went back over a thousand years to his own youth, in Ealdor with his mother at his heels, trying to imagine her swatting him gently for pulling down Will’s trousers with a flicker of his fingers. No faces came with the memory, of course. Nothing he could remember. But he remembered how powerful he felt, the gangly little boy with messy black hair and a strip of fabric tied around his neck. How weak he felt when he quickly learned that he could not use that power amongst his friends. How driven he felt years later when he found himself en route to a certain castle in the kingdom of Camelot, where he’d meet a thickheaded, pompous, and cocky prince who’d quickly become his entire world and purpose. Duty, meaning, reason… things he had not found in his life before Camelot.

And suddenly, he felt something twinge in his heart as he looked at Enid, with her mussed up bleached hair and the rings that studded the various extremities of her bloodied face. It was a twinge of sympathy, of understanding… of trust.

“I understand,” Merlin sighed, grabbing the girl by her wrists and lifting her off the ground. “And I trust you.”

“You trust her?” Arthur whispered, dumbfounded. “A moment ago, you threw her against a wall!”

“A mistake,” Merlin sighed again as the girl wobbled on her feet. “ _Ic the thurhhæle thinu licsar.”_

The bleeding from her head stopped at once. She blinked, regaining her balance and composure, though even with the most erect posture she could muster, Merlin and Arthur towered over her by well over a head.

“I’m to take this Galahad kid back home to his mummy and daddy and keep watch outside his house, me and Aithusa’s other friend. He better be nice on the eyes, or this’ll be hard.”

“That girl is going to protect him?” Arthur looked unpleasantly surprised as his eyes flickered back and forth from Enid to Merlin. “Her? She’s so little!”

“Call me ‘little’ one more time, and I swear t’ you, you’ll be holding your guts in your hands and crying for your mum!”

“Calm down,” Merlin rolled his eyes as he walked over to the boy on the bed, leaving the other two to their glaring. “The twig’s got a lot of power hidden beneath those little hands of hers. If Aithusa trusts her, so do I.”

“And who is this damned Aithusa you all seem so inclined to trust and mutter about?” Arthur insisted, narrowing his eyes.

“I’ll tell you when we’ve got this ordeal settled,” Merlin sighed, thinking about the great white dragon and her haunting, gloomy voice. Was it a voice he could trust? He did not know. But he had no alternative. The boy could not stay here; he was better off at home, with his family, protected by seemingly qualified sorcerers that could watch him night and day. Merlin had someone else he had to watch and protect at all times.

“I’ll let him know what he’s to tell his parents and what not. Don’t you worry, Mr. Emrys. Or Mr. Merlin. Or whatever they call you.”

“Just call me Merlin. That’ll be fine.”

Enid pulled the boy off the bed with an easy strength that left Merlin utterly surprised. As she pulled herself beneath him like a crutch, she suddenly looked to the two men before her.

“Aithusa wanted me t’ let you know somethin’ else,” she began hesitantly, hoisting Galahad’s arm around her shoulder. “She told me t’ tell you t’ turn on your telly more often. That the news channel is your friend and your enemy. Dunno what she means by that, mind you. But she also says you best keep your feet out of London at all costs.”

Merlin swallowed with difficulty. He had neglected a follow up on the bank homicide, and was loathe to admit that he had little to think about outside of Arthur for the past few days.

“How do you intend to get back to his place?” He muttered, taking his mind off the uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach.

“I can drive, y’know,” she chuckled, using her free hand to shake off the last of the plaster hidden in her hair. “I’ve got a car.”

“That makes one of us,” Merlin sighed, walking toward the damage he had inflicted upon his own wall and surveying the cost it would take to repair it with distaste.

“You’re the most powerful sorcerer that has ever walked this earth, and you don’t have a car?”

“I’m also the poorest sorcerer that has ever walked this earth, mind you. I’d wear that pointy blue hat if I could afford one.”

Enid chuckled as she dragged the unconscious boy through the bedroom doorway. Merlin and Arthur followed at her heel, the former eyeing the latter’s sullied looks with unease.

“I’m on your side, y’know,” Enid said again, looking once more at Merlin with a sincerity that could not be doubted. “Both of you. Our one true king,” she looked to Arthur and bowed. “And our hope. It’s weird, y’know, I never cared for Arthurian legends during class, thought ‘em to be a bit dull. But ever since that prophecy… Did I just bow t’ you? I don’t bow t’ no one! I don’t even know what’s happenin’ with me anymore.”

Arthur chuckled softly, but his weak smile did not touch his eyes. Merlin could sense it as he stood by his side. He swallowed nervously.

“Anyway, I left my mobile number on that table of yours before I snuck up on the two of you. I may be small, but I’m lighter on my feet than you’ll ever hope t’ be,” The girl grinned widely, her broken lip spouting with bright red blood. “I’ll let this one slide. I buggered you off a little too much, didn’t know you’d be such a sensitive little pansy,” before Merlin could open his mouth, however, she continued in a thoughtful tone. “I’m happy t’ serve you. Both of you fools. We’ll win this war.”

“War?” The two men inquired in unpleasant unison.

“Call it what you like. A war, a battle, a revolution – I couldn’t give less of shit what you might call it. But somethin’s out there, somethin’ dark. Somethin’ that we ought t’ all be ready for.”

And with that, the strange girl disappeared behind the door with the key to their downfall. Merlin was not sure how he was supposed to feel. He could barely feel at all. Enid’s parting words left him dreadfully unsettled. He could not even bare to look at Arthur right now.

But of course, questions had to be answered. And Merlin knew Arthur well enough to know that he would not let them slide.

Merlin turned to face Arthur with a heart made of stone. And suddenly, he felt small. He was of a height with the other man, but it felt like Arthur towered over him by a hundred heads. His broad and muscular chest suddenly seemed to stretch ten times wider. It seemed as though his arms had wrapped around him, not in an embrace, but in a solid steel grasp that made him choke on his own breath.

But Arthur simply stood there with his arms folded into his chest, staring at Merlin as though he had been betrayed by Guinevere and Lancelot all over again.

“Aithusa is…” Merlin’s voice was dry and hoarse, trembling at every syllable. “Aithusa is a dragon.”

“You told me all dragons were dead.”

“I told you such when I believed it to be true, myself,” Merlin explained weakly, his knees wobbling beneath the weight of the world. “But recent events have proven to me that I was wrong.”

“Isn’t it part of being a dragonlord to know when a dragon is at your heels?”

“I thought they were all dead for the last thousand years. I never thought to ask myself. A blunder, but you could never understand why I di-”

“Did the things you did, yes, yes, I know,” Arthur sighed exasperatedly, turning to sit at the table where a scrap of paper lay with a messy scrawl of numbers written upon it. “This dragon… is the source you mentioned? Your ‘reliable source’?”

“Yes.”

“Then why have you been so hesitant to inform me?” Arthur inquired stiffly as Merlin took the opposite seat.

“Because this dragon is… not just any dragon,” Merlin swallowed hard, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. _This dragon… Morgana’s dragon. Arthur would not like this one bit._

“You’re being unpleasantly cryptic, Merlin,” Arthur insisted exasperatedly, leaning over the table and staring deeply into what Merlin felt to be his soul. “And I know you better than I know myself. You’re afraid of telling me. I can see it your eyes.”

“Aithusa was Morgana’s dragon,” Merlin confessed, looking away in the fear of Arthur’s reaction. When the shouting that he anticipated never came, he chanced to look up. Arthur’s face was unreadable.

“Morgana’s dragon?” Arthur echoed his words, his voice as rigid as ice. “The white dragon that you… you warded off at Camlann? The very same?”

“Yes,” Merlin sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. “That very same dragon. I hatched her long ago, unbeknownst to you, admittedly, but that’s a story for another day. If I had an inkling of a clue that she’d wander off into Morgana’s clutches, I…”

“You know, Merlin,” Arthur began, his face and voice melting to a sullen thoughtfulness that tore at Merlin’s heart. “If I had known about Morgana… about who she was. If I wasn’t ignorant, if I did not hide behind my father’s legs and look to his every word as the only truth that existed… I would’ve helped her. I could’ve saved her from what she became.”

“She was ruled by her passions, by her hate and her anger,” Merlin responded after a moment of heavy silence. He hesitantly laid a hand upon his arm. “You could not save her. I could not save her. It was not in our destiny to do so.”

“Can we escape destiny, Merlin?” Arthur’s voice was full of grief, of a pain that Merlin could feel emanating from his heart. “We’re bound to these… these cruel twists of fate like prisoners chained to a gaoler’s wall. I should be dead. You should be dead. But your death should have been at the hands of age, in the comfort of your bedchambers with your loved ones at your side. I died, so be it. I saved a kingdom, and I died as I had lived, by the sword. But you… you, Merlin. You should be dead, and we should be dust in our tombs by now.”

“What does this have to do with Morgana and her dragon?” Merlin could not stomach this kind of pain, not now. Not after everything the past few days had held, the struggles that toiled from every corner. Not after what he saw, what Galahad had projected within his mind. Not after the blood that seeped from his ears and mouth and nose onto the cracked pavement, the glass embedded in his back, Arthur looming over him with panic saturating his voice. Merlin could not look at the grief tugging at his handsome features. He could not stand it.

“It has everything to do with her,” Arthur insisted, drawing his arm from beneath Merlin’s hand with a swift tug. “You should have told me everything. You should have told me of our destiny, so we could achieve it on our own terms. Not on those set upon us by our forebears of long ago. Morgana did not have to be our enemy. She could have been our ally.”

“No, she could not have,” Merlin felt his anger boil beneath his ribs yet again, a feeling that threatened to spill at any moment. “That’s why fate is fate. You can’t change it. It was set in motion upon the moments we were born, Arthur. The Great Dragon told me that I was her downfall. I didn’t know how, or why, or when, but I knew I would be. That was the only end that we were destined to achieve. Tell me then, Arthur, how could I take destiny into my own hands? Would I then have killed her with the sword in my left hand, not my right? Maybe I would’ve drowned her. Maybe suffocated her until her last breath trickled from her lips. But that would not change the fact that no matter how I chose to do it, I _would_ kill Morgana. I was her downfall.”

Arthur did not respond. His lips were taut and his eyes were chips of blue ice fixed into his eye sockets. Merlin sighed.

“What is done is done. Morgana is dead, and so were you. We cannot hope to go back in time and change any of that. But now you are back. What would you have me do? Drive your sword through your heart and let you die in my arms yet again?”

Still, he did not respond. It took Merlin all of ten seconds to realize that he was not moving at all. He was not even breathing. His eyes stared, and found nothing.

“Not again,” Merlin cried out, pushing over the table in his haste to reach the statue that Arthur had seemingly become. “Not again, not again, not again!”

Slapping Arthur upside the face did nothing. Punching him in the jaw with as much force as his noodle arms could muster did nothing as well. Merlin panicked. He placed his hand against his forehead; it was sickly warm, almost feverish, very much liked it had been a thousand, four hundred and seventy four years ago on the grassy field surrounding Avalon.

“Wake up!” Merlin shouted at ears that did not hear. “WAKE UP!”

But he would not budge. Merlin yanked at his shoulders and shook him violently to no avail. He pulled his hair and pinched his arms; nothing. Nothing was working. Arthur was as still as death itself.

But before he knew what he was doing, Merlin pressed his lips to his.

He held them there for what felt like a million years, in reality for no more than a couple seconds. It was a desperate, thoughtless move, Merlin thought to himself as he gripped Arthur’s head in his hands and pressed their mouths together. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What end would this achieve? Punching the guy did absolutely nothing. Kissing him would do less. Stupid. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

But his lips remained glued the soft and wonderfully warm ones that belonged to Arthur Pendragon, and all else failed to matter, if only for another two seconds.

When he pulled back, Merlin instantly smacked himself in the face with his fist for his stupidity. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It did nothing, as was to be expected. Arthur was still frozen in his place, his eyes staring at the air before him. Merlin’s panic overshadowed his self-disgust and self-loathing at the foolish move he had made.

He had half a mind to call Enid’s mobile and scream at her for answers; but what would she know? Merlin had never felt this helpless, not since Camlann. He resumed slapping the man across his face and desperately trying to erase the memory of his lips from a moment before.

Two long and dreadful minutes later, Arthur’s eyes found his in the middle of a slap across his left cheek. Swifter than a panther, he grabbed Merlin by the wrist and wrenched him down against the side of the fallen table.

Merlin felt his head fall against the old wood with a sickening crunch that left him in a daze. He deserved that. Before he knew it, though, the same man who had brutally threw him to the ground was pulling him back up again with shock across his face.

“Merlin!” Arthur’s voice was filled with alarm as he pulled Merlin to balance. “Forgive me, I did not know it was you!”

“It’s f-fine-”

“Wait… why were you hitting me?”

“You froze again!” Merlin explained, blinking rapidly as the room spun around him. “Like I told you… what happened to you before… it happened again… I didn’t know what else to do!”

“This must be some jape,” Arthur looked away in confusion, flexing his fingers and arms as though checking to see if he were whole. “You were sitting _right there_ , and then you flew at me like a mad man!”

“You don’t remember anything at all when you… freeze?”

“I didn’t… freeze… I was right there, I… we were talking… about something… about…”

“Morgana,” Merlin swallowed hard, eyeing Arthur carefully as worry flooded through his chest in a rush of pain. “We were talking about Morgana, and her dragon, Aithusa.”

Arthur pressed his hands to his face, exhaling sharply through his fingers and turning away toward the sofa. Merlin did not know what to say. His mind had drifted to the stupid move he had made a moment before, and regret came back to bite him in the arse. _Stupid, stupid._

Merlin had _kissed_ him. Kissed Arthur Pendragon on the _lips_ , and he did not know why. What compelled him to make such a foolish move? It did not make sense to him at all as he stared at the back of his friend’s golden head. His friend. _Friend_.

His destiny, his purpose in life, his king, the other side of the coin. The only person who had ever truly mattered in the grand scheme of things. The only person who truly mattered to the land, to the realm, to the people. To Merlin.

But Arthur did not remember, and that was all that mattered.

“We have to find out what triggers it,” Merlin began, putting aside his wandering thoughts to stare at Arthur. No, at _Arthur_. Not his lips. _Don’t look at his lips_. “What triggers these… these episodes…”

“But I… are you sure? Are you sure you didn’t just… imagine it?”

“Believe me,” Merlin had to suppress another dark chuckle. “It happened.”

“Then… I trust your words,” Arthur sighed, fumbling to turn on the television. It seemed to Merlin that he had forgotten his talk of destiny from a moment before. _Just as well_ , Merlin thought to himself as he lifted the table back into place. _Just as well_.

Aithusa had told Enid to tell him to watch television. That was queer enough as it was. Walking over to wrench Arthur’s fingers free of the remote that he failed to operate correctly, Merlin tuned in to the main news network. He had to get his mind off of Enid and the boy, of his vision filled with fire and glass and blood, of Arthur staring into the eyes of death… of the feel of his lips against his own. He had to get his mind off of it all, and turn to the important matter at hand. Aithusa’s words.

His heart fell into his stomach as he focused on the headline.

_“THIRTY-SIX MURDERED AT CAFÉ IN KINGSTON, LONDON”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enid's name is significant. Every name I choose is significant. Keep that in mind. :') I'd touch up on Arthurian legend if I were you.
> 
> Thank you guys, as always, for the continued love and support! I also keep track of the "the once and the future" tag on tumblr if you've got any inquiries or questions, or anything you'd like me to see! My tumblr is the same as my username on here, so please feel free to message me about anything regarding this fic or otherwise. c:
> 
> ** HIATUS UPDATE, PLEASE READ! **
> 
> ** So I've been stumped with a lot of school obligations; I'm entering my last year of high school, and, as such, I've got a lot of college-related obligations that I need to tend to in these first couple months of my senior school year. It has drastically sucked away at the time I've had available to continue writing. I just need the next several weeks to finish sorting all this out and then I'll be back to churning out updates! I promise, I will make the wait worth it to the best of my ability. Thank you for understanding! See you in late October/ early November! **


End file.
